In the Closet
by lillialyce
Summary: High School AU. Grimmjow isn't gay. At least, that's what he tries to tell himself when he starts to like Ulquiorra, who is openly homosexual.  DISCONTINUED.
1. In Which Grimmjow is a Chauffeur

**Disclaimer/Warning: This fic will be rated T borderline M, and there'll be a bit of gay-bashing and religion (courtesy of nameless descriptionless OCs). **

* * *

**I.**

I can never get rid of this guy, this Ulquiorra.

Ten years ago, the little bastard moved in next door with his dad, and ever since I've been thrown together with him constantly. We've always been in the same school—except for the years when he was still in elementary school and I was in the middle school and the other time, when I just started high school and he began middle school—but living across the street from Ulquiorra means I can never fucking lose him.

After four years of not seeing the guy, I'm spoiled.

There isn't a particular reason I can't put up with Cifer. He just rubs me the wrong way.

And this is all conveniently ignoring that we might have been friends at one point.

Ulquiorra never talks, and when he does, he's serious, cold, and fucking _arrogant_ for someone two years younger and half a foot shorter than me. My mom _adores_ him, though. Every day, she wants me to invite him over for dinner, or have him join us for a family outing, or play a game, or whatever the hell she says. Adults love him.

I don't see why. He doesn't have any friends—he chooses not to talk, oddly enough—and he's pretty girly. It makes sense, considering the little shit's gay.

Yeah, gay. As in, he'd probably fuck my ass if he had the chance. The bastard would though, considering. . . But don't get me wrong; I'm not a homophobe.

Still, I'd figured that being in high school would mean we'd be in different classes, and the school's big enough so I won't have to see him everywhere. I'd finally get rid of him.

But, because of my _loving, caring_ mother, I'm going to be a chauffeur for my _loving, caring_ neighbor. She says it 'follows the Ten Commandments'—which are conveniently posted by the front door to convert all our visitors—but I bet she wants to see us become best friends. Again.

If she knew Ulquiorra was gay, I can only imagine the shit she'd come up with to try and 'fix' him.

Hell, I almost did tell her. He was being his normal, self-righteous self, somehow hinting to my mom that he needed someone to drive him to school . . .

"_I'll have to decline." Who the fuck talks like that? He's talking quietly, as usual, and he's sitting across from me in the living room._

"_Oh, but Grimmy would _love _to help you, and it's been so long," she laughs, and my blood is burning my veins. I hate that nickname. "Love thy neighbor, right?"_

"_Thank you for the meal, Mrs. Jaegerjacquez," Ulquiorra stands up, and I'm almost ready to worship him because he's finally leaving. He hasn't been over in years, and the sudden appearance excites my mom a bit too much. _

"_Grimmy, of course, is _always_ willing to help his friends. He simply _adores_ you, Ulquiorra. Why don't you two ever spend time together anymore?" I snarl, because I don't __adore__ shit. "How about you come with us to Mass on Sunday? You and Grimmy can—"_

"_He's not fucking going with us to _Mass_," I growl through a clenched jaw. I'm acting spoiled, but really, how many times is she going to try and force us to be friends? How many times has she mentioned wanting to adopt her precious Ulquiorra? I can't talk to her without hearing his stupid name. "Stop talking about me like I'm not here."_

"_Watch your language, young man," she scolds before turning to face Ulquiorra, who has almost made it outside. Apparently not hearing me, she adds, "Grimmjow would love to—"_

"_I don't love anything related to that homo."_

_For a moment, everything is silent. _

_I guess I'd shouted. Ulquiorra, for once, is uncomfortable. He knows I'm not lying and he's never lied before, which is why he's open about his sexuality._

_Ulquiorra's face is a light shade of pink, and my stomach churns at the sight. I've only seen Ulquiorra flushed once before, and I've been trying to forget it. "Once again, thank you for lunch. Grimmjow. Mrs. Jaegerjacquez." He's staring at me, and I can't fucking tell what he's thinking. His eyes are always empty._

_My mother frowns because it's obvious that Ulquiorra was affected by what I said. "That was rude, Grimmjow. Apologize to poor Ulquiorra."_

"_That won't be nec—"_

"_Honestly, how could you even associate your friend with one of those vile beings?" Ulquiorra's getting paler and paler trying to compose himself. _

_Something odd builds up in my chest, and I clench my fists tightly when Ulquiorra's eyes are boring into mine. I can't tell what he's trying to say, but it reminds me too much of the night . "Homosexuals," my mom scowls. "God scorns those who do not follow Him," she continues, "and you just made Ulquiorra feel like he was worthless."_

_What the hell? She's the one ranting about the evils of gay guys right in front of one._

.

According to the kitchen clock, it's seven fourteen (and forty-six seconds). The sun's blinding me, and it's probably a warning that life's going to suck as the driver of little Ulquiorra Cifer.

I was definitely spoiled.

I can hear my mom stampeding across the top floor, looking for the camera, probably. She's the only person who still takes pictures of The First Day of School, and because it's Ulquiorra's first day of high school, she's going to want to commemorate it in our family albums, which he really shouldn't be a part of.

I don't even know why, after four years of no contact, she suddenly thinks it's okay for us to become friends again. Did she ever consider that there's a _reason _we don't talk anymore?

"Grimmjow! Call in Ulquiorra for photos!" She's starting down the stairs as I try and sneak out the front door, but it's no use. "Grimmy! Is Ulquiorra out there?" She's still in her bed clothes, and it's embarrassing as hell, but I live in her house, so I have to do what she says.

"Cifer," I pull open the door and gesture to the figure standing—how long has he been there, the little creeper— by my car, "get your ass over here!" I can hear my mother's horrified gasp because I fucking _cursed_ as Ulquiorra looks toward me and slowly makes his way to the house.

He stares at me, his huge, green eyes trying to do _something_. Our faces are ridiculously close, and I suppose I should move over and let him pass the threshold, but it doesn't occur to me. Ulquiorra, because I'm a full seven inches taller than him, has to tilt his head upward. I bet his gay-guy hormones are buzzing.

I smirk at him, grabbing his collar and shoving him into the house.

"Grimmjow!" Mom's shocked, I guess. She doesn't know how rough I can be. "Just _what_ do you think you're doing?"

"It's fine, Mrs. Jaegerjacquez," Ulquiorra cuts in smoothly. He looks at me a final time before turning back to face my mom. "Did you need me for something?"

What the hell? She's jelly in his hands.

"Oh, I just want pictures of the two of you together! You're finally in high school, Ulquiorra. Your father must be proud."

Ulquiorra blinks. "He's busy with work and my grade level is garbage to him."

Though he didn't used to be, this guy is depressed all the time. I don't know how my mom doesn't see it, what with him hiding his arms and getting tear tattoos and talking about the pointlessness of life.

"Hmm, I think you and Grimmy would look adorable by the fireplace! Oh, you both wear your uniforms differently."

I guess she's talking about how my shirt's huge and I roll the sleeves up. Ulquiorra, on the other hand, has a tighter shirt, which he's buttoned up to his neck. His pants are huge, though, and it's like he's swarming in the fabric. Because the uniform is so white, his horribly pale skin looks worse than usual. He'd look sick, if I wasn't used to his face.

When he moves, I pretend that I can't see hints of muscles through the cloth.

"You don't have to button it all the way, stupid," I address him. I had a more colorful word in place of 'stupid,' but my mom is right next to me. Ulquiorra stares at me blankly. His eyes are huge. "Your shirt. They're okay with you wearing the uniform your own way."

"It was meant to be worn like this," he points out, as though he's smarter than me. He keeps staring—is he trying to make this awkward—so I turn to face my mom.

"We have to get to school soon, if I want a good parking spot."

"Oh, well, just go by the fireplace so I can get my one shot." We're standing in the right spot when she snaps nearly a dozen pictures. My eyes are watering from the camera flash so I almost miss her gesture that we should stand closer.

When neither of us moves, she takes the job on herself, shoving Ulquiorra into me—because she can't push _me_, that's for sure—so he's standing close enough so I can smell his hair—which I won't fucking describe—and feel his arm brush against my side.

Memories of that night before middle school burn through my mind.

I must've closed my eyes because Mom complains about it and takes another picture. I practically throw Ulquiorra across the room when she turns off the camera.

"We really have to leave now, Mrs. Jaegerjacquez," he says, catching my completely obvious hint.

She waves us off—but not before I have to dodge her trying to hug me and cry about there being two years before college—and I'm running to my car within seconds.

Over the summer, I'd managed to scrape up enough to pay for it. My own car. My own fucking car.

"You can get in," I mutter when I see Ulquiorra standing there. There's a certain way he moves that's all his own, and I'm transfixed by these gestures as he buckles his seatbelt and moves some of his hair from his face. Even after four years, he's still the same.

"Are you ready?" He asks me this question as though he's the one who owns this car.

"Don't talk to me like I'm fucking five," I snap at him, slamming the car door.

When I back out of the driveway, neither of us tries to talk. What are we supposed to say? Am I supposed to have fucking forgotten? We sit in silence for most of the car ride.

Occasionally, I think I might have looked at him. At traffic lights, I know I stared at the shape of his profile, how he was sitting in a haughty way, the way his eyes seemed to flicker with something when he caught me glancing at him.

"What?" he asks finally, turning away from the window to face me.

I try to think of something witty to say, something that'll explain why I was watching him most of this ride. "Why'd you get those tattoos?" I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. He definitely didn't have them when I was thirteen.

I'm an idiot.

He gives me a look, as though he thinks I'm stupid—which I am, for asking something like _that_—before replying, "Most likely for the same reasons you have those markings under your eyes." What kind of fucked up answer is that?

"Nice of you to notice," I say dryly, focusing on driving again. Of _course _he notices my eyes.

It's quiet for the rest of the ride.

By the time we're in the parking lot, I'm more relieved than anything. I must have jumped out of the car fast, because Ulquiorra is still unbuckling his seatbelt when I close the door.

"Were you just in a car with that fag?" I can't remember this kid's name, but I know he purposely screams his question so Ulquiorra can hear.

I look back to Ulquiorra, who isn't moving particularly fast, but he doesn't seem to be affected by these words. He either doesn't hear or is choosing to ignore them. He stands up, green eyes challenging me. I look away and hear him walk toward the school.

"I drive him here, stupid," I say at last, turning to face this guy. "Didn't I tell you?"

"No," the kid smirks. "Though I bet you'll turn gay if you spend too much time with him." I may not like Ulquiorra all that much, but I get him. He can't 'turn me gay.' It's just impossible.

I punch his shoulder in what could be playful but was meant to hurt him. "Shut the fuck up."

.

Hueco Mundo High School was named after some Spanish or Indian Tribe, so our mascot is some ugly-ass guy with a feathered hat. When I walk into the school, someone throws a small version of said hat toward me. "What the hell?"

Two girls nearby laugh, and I know the brunette is the one who threw it. She looks at me, smiles, and says loudly to her friend, "For Homecoming this year, I heard the theme is going to be 'A Knight to Remember.' It's cheesy but romantic at the same time." She clasps her hands together and looks in my direction with a drunken look. "I wonder who I'll go with."

I walk away from her, which is probably rude, but I don't give a fuck. I hear her friend trying to be supportive, saying, "Grimmjow hasn't dated anyone since freshman year. Don't press your luck."

The girl and her friend are right in that I haven't been with anyone since I was fourteen, but I have to blame them and their crappy looks. None of the girls in Hueco Mundo are attractive to me, though my friends don't seem to agree.

The girls're decent looking, I guess. None of them are right.

But that doesn't mean I'm Ulquiorra-gay.

I make my way to homeroom and get my schedule and locker assignment. I'm pissed off because I'm given a bottom locker despite my height. My teacher won't change the record, so I'm going to have to crawl for the rest of the year if I want to get my stuff.

My schedule is crumpled, I've been clutching it so tightly. I have all the basic classes—fuck if I'm going to do all the work they give the AP and Honors nerds—and I'm taking art, study hall, and French as electives. I'd forgotten to take an art course as a freshman, when everyone else was smart enough to take it, so now I'm going to be stuck with the influx of enthusiastic freshman.

Clusters of them are trying to weave through the halls, midgets unused to this world we call high school.

"Remember when you were like that kid, Grimmjow?" I turn and find Di Roy Linker, this kid who's been stalking me since I came to this school. He's not stalking me so much as following me around with the hopes of becoming popular.

A kid that looks like Ulquiorra—they both have the black hair—pulls his books away from an upperclassman, who must've taken them, and he pushes to get past him and to his next class.

"Hell no." His ugly religious head covering—everyone seems to be deep into religion these days—moves around as he laughs. "Where're you going?"

"Trigonometry," he grins. "Gimme your schedule." I hand it to him and start walking to my English class, which is nearby and the reason why I'm dawdling. He follows me like a puppy.

"Are you finally going to ask someone to Homecoming?" Di Roy's eyes don't leave the paper in his hands, but I can tell he was eager to ask me this from the start. "We have the same gym and lunch periods." The bell rings.

"You got your eyes on someone?" I'm supposed to be in class now, but since it's the first day, I figure they'll let me off.

"No," he smiles innocently, "but I have a friend who wants me to ask you. She's worried you've crossed to the dark side 'er something."

"Right." I take my schedule back and stuff it in my pocket.

"What should I tell her?"

"Homecoming's not for two months," I mutter. The idea of having to take someone to Homecoming doesn't tighten my pants or make my face hot.

"Still. . . Maybe you and me and the guys can all go." He adjusts the headpiece and looks at the door of my classroom. "I have to head to Trig."

I don't say anything as I enter English.

.

The day goes by surprisingly quickly, and I'm on my way to art when I see a group of freshman stampede into the room. It puts me in a bad mood.

One of them—she's dressed like a prostitute, so I have to wonder how the school let her in—stops to flirt with me. I smile at her, which seems to be enough of a reason to follow me into the classroom. "What's your name?" She fixes one of her ponytails, "I'm Loly."

I brush past her and try to find a table not surrounded by idiot freshman. There's only one, and it conveniently hosts an Ulquiorra Cifer with a book. Of course he's in my fucking art class.

I've put up with him for enough of today, but annoying him is more entertaining than being annoyed by Loly, who seems to have found a blonde friend to squeal with. And there are no more seats. That's definitely my reason for sitting there.

Ulquiorra must've chosen to sit alone, because when I plop into the seat farthest from him but still at his table, he gives me a cold look. He most likely scared away the others who tried to sit near him.

"What's wrong with you?" Most people would be thrilled if someone came so they wouldn't be alone. But then again, Ulquiorra isn't like most people.

"I don't need your company," he deadpans, "and you don't want mine." The bell rings to signal the start of this class, and some woman who would dress like a hippie if Hueco Mundo didn't have a dress code comes into the room to smile.

I would move to a new seat, because his way of talking is annoying me, but there really isn't anywhere to go. It's four to a table, and out of the six tables, this is the only one left.

"Relax, would you? I'm not gonna fucking _rape_ you." I realize that what I've just said is awkward, because he's gay.

Ulquiorra's grip on his book tightens, and his voice is hard. "If you care about your life, you'll find a new seat." I don't know if he's still mad about middle school.

"Are you two quite finished?" Gray eyes are glaring at me, though it's all hidden beneath a hippie exterior, so I can tell this teacher thinks everything is _my_ fault and is going to hate _me_ for the rest of the year.

"I apologize," Ulquiorra says almost immediately, moving his gaze from me to the teacher and back within a span of two seconds.

I'm gonna kill him. I'm gonna fucking kill him.

"Oh." Her face brightens up, as every adult's does when Ulquiorra talks. "Well, then." She smiles at Ulquiorra before walking back to the front of the room. "I'm your art teacher . . ."

"Bastard," I hiss, chucking my pencil at him. It hits him right in the nose and he doesn't even blink.

Ulquiorra's going to die of strangulation.

I'll leave no evidence of the crime.

The woman must be going through attendance. "Ulquiorra Cifer."

He raises his hand and corrects her, "It's Sch-i-ffer. The _i_ has a short sound."

"Oh, thank you! Do you have any nicknames, Ulquiorra?" He shakes his head and she pouts before continuing down the list. When she gets to my name, she screws up. "Grimmjow Jag. . . Jaeg. . . Pardon, how _do_ you pronounce your name?"

I clench my teeth, ignoring the laughing. "Jagger-jack." She nods and moves on, and I see Ulquiorra staring at me. "What the fuck do you want?"

He blinks, as though he's so _fucking_ _innocent_—which he isn't because I was there that night—and I can feel my fingers itching to grab his pale-ass throat and shake him.

"Okay, so," the woman claps her hands together like we're in preschool, "I want you to draw a picture of what you did over your summer vacations!" What is she thinking? High school students don't do assignments this stupid. "There's paper in the top drawers of your tables. Due at the end of class."

Ulquiorra hands my pencil back to me wordlessly. When I take it, I notice his hands are freezing.

After I draw a quick picture of me sleeping and hand it in, I move to stand over Ulquiorra's shoulder and make him as uncomfortable as possible. He's drawn a semi-decent picture of him reading a book, though in the drawing his face is entirely covered by said book, so I'm not sure if it's supposed to be him.

He sits through five minutes of my pestering before snapping around—and this is only after I start blowing on his neck—and pushing me backward.

"Move, Grimmjow."

It's stupid that he tells me this _after_ he shoves me out of the way. I almost tell him so, but the bell rings and I'm out of there.

I hate that I know what he smells like now.

.

I have gym as my last class. It's shit.

I'm going to be tired and sweaty when I get to my car, and I can only imagine what it'll do to pretty-gay-boy Ulquiorra.

Today, at least, I was spared from gym class horror. Instead, I sat through what felt like years of gym teachers telling us about locker room conduct and crap like that. When the bell rings, I'm almost running to my car in relief.

I sit there for ten minutes. Half of the other people have left already.

Ulquiorra is late, and I'm tempted to leave without him.

Just as I start the engine, he decides to show up. He sits down and turns to face the window as though nothing's wrong. The little fuck. . .

"What the hell?" I snap at him. He doesn't move, so I grab his shoulder and pull him so he's facing me.

There's a small cut across his temple, and under his right eye is slightly swollen. It's pink, so it completely stands out compared to his pale, almost white skin. I have the urge to touch his cheek, and I act on it. Warmth floods to my fingers before I realize he's blushing.

He slaps my hand away.

I smirk, trying to cover up what I just did. It reminds me vaguely of why our friendship ended. "What's with your face?" It sounds like I'm insulting his looks, which I tend to do on a regular basis now, so I elaborate, "Why's it look like someone punched you?"

He looks at me like I'm stupid. "Because someone did."

"Why?" He may be annoying, and I have been tempted to punch him a few, okay, more than a few, times, but I never have, so I don't know why anyone else would. Especially since it's the first day and he couldn't have done anything _that_ bad.

"We're going to be late getting home." He avoids my question entirely, pissing me off.

"Fine." When we're out of the school parking lot, I ask him again.

"The reasons are insignificant." His attention is on the landscape outside.

Ulquiorra doesn't lie. Instead, he skids past subjects and he answers with questions and vague pieces of information. He never lies, though. Unless _that _part of him's changed too.

"Tell me when, at least." Obviously it was after sixth period, when we have art.

He's silent for a minute. "Gym."

The answer is shoved at me with this little piece of information. "'Cuz you're gay?"

"Because I might look at them in the locker room," he clarifies, folding his hands on his lap. The tattoos on his face make him seem depressed. He's not looking at me, but I'm looking at him. I know my heart is pounding faster, seeing him like this.

I feel guilty for leaving him.

I'm not sure what to say.

* * *

**So, this is my first multi-chaptered Bleach fanfic. . . Yeah, I can tell it's Grimmjow OoC-ness. I suck at writing guy-points-of-view, and I even did research (i.e. Reading tons of books written in boy-first-person) this time. This is going to be a GrimmUlqui romance, I'm just really slow and draggy when it comes to getting my point across.**

**If you find any mistakes, let me know. I originally wrote this in third person past tense, so I'm expecting a lot of crap, even though I've read over it twenty million times.**

**Oh, and since Loly and Di Roy are such minor characters in the manga, I have no idea if I got their personalities right. I just made them up to suit my needs. *is shot***

**I don't expect this story to get much attention, especially with the large number of high school AU fics out there now, but I'm still going to try and finish this. *crosses fingers* ****Thanks for putting up with me so far. ^^**


	2. In Which Ulquiorra is Sick

**Warnings: There's a little gay-bashing.**

* * *

**II.**

Like everyone else, I have my own secrets. Perhaps people believe that because I am open about my sexuality, they know everything about me.

That is an impossible lie.

Being 'gay' doesn't mean that I'm going to act feminine and flirt with everything that has a penis. It doesn't mean that I'm going to love shopping and crave sex. It doesn't mean that I have the ridiculous notion of 'gaydar,' so I won't know if someone is gay before he knows it for himself. It doesn't mean that I can seduce others into changing, and it doesn't mean I can change back.

All being 'gay' means is that I'm attracted to males rather than females.

I realize that I came 'out of the closet' quite early, compared to others, and it has nothing to do with my upbringing, which includes a deceased mother and a workaholic father. Moving into the neighborhood where I currently reside is not related to my sexuality, either.

People have to stop assuming things.

It might not seem so, considering the polite front I put up, but I don't enjoy spending time in the Jaegerjacquez family house. It seems that, ever since Grimmjow casually brought up my homosexuality, his mother is finding more and more ways to slip her hatred for 'my type' into conversation.

Constantly, she lectures me about being myself. Religion is a large factor in her rants, and I have excuse myself when she is particularly passionate about the topic.

"_Can you imagine? Two men copulating? Disgusting."_

"_There's a reason God can't stand them, those good-for-nothing little. . ."_

"_I can't believe another state is allowing _those_ people marry."_

"_According to the news, another one of _them_ was beaten. Violence is never the answer, but it was a good idea."_

I wonder if either of them realizes that I'm not infallible, that those insults aren't going to slide past me. I wonder if anyone knows just how many times I hear similar comments in school. I wonder if anyone understands that those individual cuts will accumulate.

I'm not invincible. Each cut will grow until one day there is nothing left to salvage.

Still, whenever I'm in situations like this, large numbers tend to be the reasons for my losses. I am not as weak as people wrongfully believe homosexual men to be.

I am, however, at a disadvantage when my opponent is not only taller than me, but also much heavier and wider than me.

His hand is larger than my face, and that alone is the reason why I can't pry it away from my neck. The loss of oxygen makes me kick at him, though my flailing limbs must not mean much. My strikes are by no means weak, but he's laughing at me. The pressure around my neck is abruptly removed.

As I'm gasping for air, my assailant grabs the back of my shirt and drags me across the ground. It's degrading, really, to have my face scraping against gum-coated cement. Small rocks claw at my skin, but I manage to say what I am thinking, "Trash."

He is garbage, undoubtedly, and it only seems right to let him know before he thinks otherwise.

"You stupid fag," he growls, and I'm thrown against the wall before I can retaliate properly. I'm not weak; I'm caught off guard.

His fist makes contact with my stomach, once, twice, and suddenly I've lost count. My own punches seem to have no effect. I taste something like metal in my mouth, but I don't want to believe it's blood.

"The _fuck_'re you doing?" Grimmjow, oddly enough, is the one to come to my rescue. It's humiliating. He punches this man in the face—and it annoys me that Grimmjow is able to hurt my opponent while I cannot even faze him—before turning to me.

It's shallow, but I don't want anyone to see me like this. I try to scramble away, but my attacker's foot directs a final, disorienting hit, and I'm forced to stay and recollect myself as he runs off.

Grimmjow looks after him, as if deciding whether or not to give chase, but he ultimately decides against it. "Hey," he prods me lightly with his shoe, hand held out carelessly while he rolls his eyes.

I ignore him and stand up on my own. According to my watch, he waited a half hour for me. "I've made you late," I say pointedly.

"Are you stupid?" He stares at me incredulously before starting toward the parking lot. I fail to see how my actions are stupid. I follow him and try to brush away the dirt and dust from my uniform so as to not stain the interior of his car. "How many times have you been hit for, you know. . ."

I get into his car carefully. "That's irrelevant." I know he wants the truth, but I don't see why he needs it.

"Don't give me that shit." He slams the door hard enough to cause the vehicle to shake.

"If I anger someone, I deal with the repercussions."

"That doesn't answer my question, Ulquiorra." He backs out of his parking spot before turning to glare at me.

"A few times," I concede. It doesn't matter.

"Well," he pulls the car to a stop and looks at me seriously, "if they ever bug you too much, I'll beat the shit out of them." I stare at him wordlessly because I can't think of anything to match the mood he's created. Grimmjow smirks, "I'm here for you."

.

It's a stereotypical habit, I suppose. One that includes me trying and failing to inconspicuously stare at my neighbor during our many drives to and from school.

Grimmjow is rather attractive and he and I both know that it affects me. I've spent so much time with him because of our transportation situation, and he's come to know me in a way no one else has.

I never let anyone in, other than him.

He knows, for example, that I do not get visibly flustered by his presence, even when his face is merely inches from mine. He also knows that if he smirks at me from that distance, I move away, and my face usually feels warmer when I do so.

I don't blush but instead feel hot.

In the locker room, I am usually the last to leave and finish getting dressed, so I am not in the way of others who need to change. I understand that the others feel discomfort, and they feel that I'll stare at them and 'get turned on.' While I am attracted to guys, I'm not so perverted that I'll stare at them getting undressed.

Besides, I've always found one particular person interesting, and he's not in my gym period. They have nothing to worry about.

I make said interesting man uncomfortable.

He tells me so daily, from his actions and his words. He is repulsed by me, and once again I fail to see why. He finds my eyes too large and thinks it's awkward when I look at him. I tend to trace the contours of his face and close my eyes and capture it all to the smallest detail.

I must remind him of the past, of things he wants to forget.

I cannot forget. I dream. In these hypothetical situations, he is still loud and brash and striking, everything I'm not, but in my delusions he 'comes out' to me and talks to me and loves me.

I do not lie to myself, but it is to my chagrin that I think mostly of his lips during our car rides and other, lower, regions when I'm alone.

.

If someone asked him, Grimmjow would deny that we had ever been friends. He cares too much about his reputation, I suppose, to remember. If he is unwilling to acknowledge it, there is no need for me to do so. If neither of us mentions this supposed friendship and there is no verification, then it does not, had never, existed.

Unfortunately, there is always evidence. It is intangible, but it is there. Who I am now is a constant reminder of our past friendship.

.

I wake up on the morning of October 14 feeling like garbage.

The most likely cause is the dust I was in contact with yesterday and the abrupt change of weather, but I'm doubtful that those circumstances have made me ill. My body should have a better immune system.

Still, my movements are abnormally lethargic and I can't manage to keep my breakfast down. My white school uniform blinds me. Perhaps I should take it as a sign that I should not go to school, but instead, I deem the matter unworthy and brush it aside.

I'm dizzy when I make my way across the street, but it doesn't matter. Grimmjow's trademark smirk as he nearly shoves me into his car helps nothing.

"You look like shit," he tells me when I lean back and close my eyes. His normally loud voice, which I've come to terms with and somewhat appreciate, is making my head pound. "Are you sick 'er something?" He seems almost excited, and I look at him closely. Have I bothered him so much that he wants to see me suffer? I don't remember such sadism.

"Sickness is a sign of the weak," I say instead of giving him a proper answer. "Why do you care?" Whenever I give the slightest hint that he can consider me a friend again, Grimmjow pushes me away. It usually helps in keeping him from asking inappropriate questions.

"I don't." He growls defensively before shrugging and backing the car out of his driveway. "Just don't throw up in here s'all."

I have no intention of doing so, but his car is moving much faster than usual. It suddenly occurs to me that by denying my body rest, I am acting pathetic.

"You okay?" He breaks the usual silence and turns to face me. I can't decipher the look in his eyes, and I don't want to wrongfully call it 'concern.'

I eye him warily, my collar starting to feel a little tight. The car feels cramped and warm. "Why?"

He pulls to a stop as the traffic light color changes. "You're paler than usual. And shaking." I frown.

"I see." We stare at each other uncomfortably for a minute before he turns away to start driving.

.

When we were younger, Grimmjow and I used to spend a lot of time together. Usually I would go to his house and his mother would babysit for my ever-absent father as we played outdoor games like 'tag' and 'hide-and-seek.'

When his mother trusted us alone, we went to play in the woods behind his house. After a few minutes of hide-and-seek, I found him behind a tree. The trunk was easily three times wider than he was, but he managed to stand out regardless.

He'd laughed and told me I was his best friend. And I hugged him, nervous and excited, telling him I felt the same. Because my father was never present, I'd come to look at him for guidance, for companionship. He was everything I was not, and when I spent time with him, I felt exhilarated.

I was still shorter than Grimmjow, so when I looked upward, the sun made his eyes shine. It was the first time I'd felt warm and happy.

Not too long after, I started to feel something stronger than the 'best friends' concept, but it was still long before I realized that I was an abnormality. For a while, I'd been eager to know what it meant to love someone, as my father and I had a relationship that ensured us never seeing each other.

Grimmjow made me happy, so while at first it had been simply idolization, I'd begun to feel romantic gestures. I know, however, that my childhood did not make me who I am. Otherwise, I would have been interested in Grimmjow only and not men in general. That is not the case. Men are different from women in many ways.

In middle school, I had openly 'come out,' and I'd always looked at other boys. It might seem hopelessly cliché, but I was always comparing all of them to one other person. A person who I can't quite forgive and will never forget.

The lack of tangible evidence of this relationship can never make it nonexistent.

.

As an art assignment, our teacher tells us to create a self portrait. "You can use any medium, but I want it to portray your inner self. You'll have two weeks to work on this in class, and I'll be after school," she glances at me, "every Wednesday if you need more time. Mirrors are by my desk in the front."

Out of the skills I possess, drawing is one of my flaws. I won't be able to scrape together an acceptable picture—though I have to wonder why drawing something a person sees on a daily basis is considered creative—but I know it will meet all the requirements and earn a good enough grade.

I see a cluster of my classmates talking in the corner. They expect me to put a gay rights rainbow on my drawing, of course. One of the boys, a tall black-haired one, seems ready to try and insult me, but his lacking intelligence keeps him from making a witty insult.

It is a generalization, but teenage females tend to want to befriend homosexual boys. A few have tried to talk to me, but because I don't enjoy shopping with them—and because I am too 'depressed' and unwilling to talk—they are turned off. It's fine with me, though, for I'm not interested in useless friendships.

I take one of the mirrors laid out on the table and spin around, keen to make it back to my seat and stay there the whole period. Somehow, I've managed to turn that simple task into a huge ordeal.

I run into something, or rather, someone. I should be thankful that it's Grimmjow, but knowing that I basically threw my face at his chest isn't the least bit comforting to either of us.

I refuse to admit that he smells nice, either. The warmth coming from his body should not have been in any way comforting. Releasing a breath, I pull myself away stiffly.

Grimmjow seems ready to throw an irritating comment at me, so I brush past him as though the previous events did not take place.

With the mirror on the table, I am forced to note that I look sick. It is useless for me to describe my appearance, but I follow all the stereotypes meant for those who are unwell. I feel bad, but it is not enough to make me leave school early. I don't believe I would be able to, anyway, without a means of transportation. The school would not have Grimmjow drop me off.

Grimmjow throws a colored pencil at me, and I catch it and try to interpret his motives. I come up with nothing and roll the pencil back to him.

"Are you two boys working?" Our instructor randomly appears at our table and looks at Grimmjow, a small note of disapproval in her tone.

"Of course," I state, causing her to look at me. I know Grimmjow has a barrage of insults ready. "He needed the color for his eyes."

She seems to consider this and looks at the pencil in Grimmjow's clenched fist, which, indeed, is a shade of blue. The color is nothing like that of his eyes, but she accepts my answer, in any case. "If you say so, Ulquiorra," she sighs. She walks away as Grimmjow glares at me, though I am unsure why. I just got him out of trouble.

"Suck up," he breathes. For a moment, I consider the idea that he is going to stand over my shoulder again. It was uncomfortable and awkward, to say the least, especially when one knows that until that day, for over four years we hadn't been in contact without his mother present.

The memory of his breath, hot against my neck, makes me shift in my seat only slightly. "Would you have preferred her reprimanding you?"

"I would have _preferred_ you to shut the hell up," he mutters mockingly, though I can hear him clearly. I cough a little, my throat unusually dry, and ignore him.

.

What might have pushed Grimmjow over the edge was when I almost kissed him, back when he was going to start middle school.

I know he's tried to forget, and I know that moment will forever be engraved into my skull. Daily I am reminded of this, for it was then that I had become confident about my sexuality. Grimmjow might have forgotten, for all I know. It's been nearly five years.

Afterward, we were no longer friends. My embarrassment made everything awkward, and he was definitely eager to cut everything off when I suggested it. We distanced ourselves rather quickly, so it surprises me that no one was suspicious.

I would like to assume it never happened, but it is a part of me. It would be pointless to do otherwise.

.

By my last period class, a state-required typing and writing course, I have to hold in my coughing at regular intervals. I feel nauseous, though I'm grateful that the school day is almost over. When the bell rings, I move slowly to leave the classroom. I am one of the few who doesn't gather everything before the educator is finished.

Grimmjow, for once, is not impatient when I make it to his car. Usually I have to go from one end of the building to the other and then back again so I can get to the vehicle.

His altered attitude makes me ask, "Did something happen?" I cough into my hand and sit in the car. My head spins as he swerves out of the parking lot.

"Why? Whad'ya hear?" He leans over the gear in between us and growls as our noses touch for a brief second. I push him away and bite back the bile threatening to push out of my throat. The last thing I want is to vomit on him or vomit in general, really.

I had heard through the grapevine of rumors that Grimmjow had destroyed the dreams of yet another girl wanting to go to Homecoming with him. Of the many rejected, this one had a sister who was gossiping in my English class.

"It seems you rejected another date," I say slowly. He wanted to know exactly what I had heard, but it really isn't my business.

"Yeah," he smirks, speeding to miss a red light. I rest my head against the window and close my eyes, forcing the queasiness to subside. "Wanna know why?"

I think he's intentionally changing directions and driving too quickly, because my vision is blurring slightly. "Not particularly," I respond, a minute late in answering. He is mocking me, but he is not succeeding.

The car makes a sharp turn and I clamp my jaw shut. My knuckles are white from holding too tightly onto the arm rests. "The Ulquiorra I remember would have been _curious_." I wonder if he is referring to our past friendship, but instead I chalk it up to sadism and his idea of torturing a homosexual.

"I don't need to know, Grimmjow," I say, moments later. He spins into our small neighborhood, and I've never been so relieved to see my house. He parks the car and unlocks the doors, leaning toward me again. Must his face be so close to mine?

"It's 'cuz I—"

_Shit_.

I don't give him a chance to finish his statement, though, for a wave of nausea hits me again. I clamor out of the car and rush out, my keys barely opening the door in time for me to make it to the bathroom.

After the nausea is settled, I realize that I have forgotten my things and left them in Grimmjow's possession. Not only that, but I had probably insulted him by running off while he was talking.

Out the window, I see that he is no longer outside. I assume he is in his house, and I'm tempted to go after him to ask for my books, but I ultimately decide to wait.

Instead, I drag my way up to my bedroom and change into bedclothes, ready more than anything to succumb to sleep's wishes.

I feel like trash.

.

On the day I almost kissed Grimmjow Jaegerjacquez, we were alone in his room. His mother was downstairs on the phone and my father was, as per usual, not at home. It was the day before his first day of middle school, our last day together before our friendship would deteriorate.

We had just finished dying his hair. Grimmjow is a natural blond, but when he entered middle school, I helped him dye it blue. His wild hair and strong personality make him stand out—to the point that I could never fully rid myself of his influence—and since then he's kept the blue and claimed it as natural.

"You're gonna miss me, huh?" he smirked. Even then, when he was thirteen and I had just turned eleven, smirking was a habit of his. He was sitting next to me on the bed, hands in his pockets as he looked at me.

"This is the first time we won't be in the same school," I said quietly. I suppose it could be described as sadness in my voice. I was playing with something in my hands, though I cannot recall what it was.

"We're neighbors. Even if ya wanted to get rid of me," he punched me lightly in the shoulder, "I'll always be here."

It was a comforting gesture, and whatever was in my hands fell to the floor when something—something I will never understand, no matter how many times I go back and look over this memory—possessed me. I reached over and pulled him closer to me by his shirt, and at first I could tell he thought it was just a game.

I'm not sure what game it could have been, really. We were so close, and his breath was warm on my face. He was wearing a plain white shirt with a pocket on the left, and I was clutching onto it and dragging him closer to me. My mouth was dry.

Then I acted solely on impulse.

I hadn't planned to try and kiss him. I'd wanted to for so long, and it was this moment that made me realize who I was.

I leaned over and grazed his cheek only slightly—

"What the _hell_? Ulquiorra?" He was shocked, and he pushed me away so fast I wasn't even aware that I had done what I had just done. I'd acted upon the feelings burning inside me every time he'd change his shirt in front of me or every time we'd sit so close to each other my body would heat up.

I couldn't explain my actions, and I sat there stupidly as he stared at me as though I was a disease. I think I just stayed there, unmoving, until Mrs. Jaegerjacquez came in and said my father was at home.

The next day, when he got back from school—the elementary school didn't start until the next day—I met up with him and formally suggested that we should no longer be friends. I knew he hadn't wanted me to try and kiss him, and I knew I'd ruined whatever friendship we had.

I hadn't expected him to agree so readily.

But he had, and that was that. I shouldn't associate myself with trash and wonder what _could have been_. I do not regret.

* * *

**God, I can't get Ulquiorra in character. He's so hard to write, darn it! XD If you have any suggestions, lemme know. ;)**

**Yeah, this story's going to alternate points-of-view each chapter, Grimmjow then Ulquiorra then Grimmjow again. =P It was easier to write as Grimmjow. *dies* Oh, and sorry it's freakishly short compared to last chapter (over a hundred word difference). Plus, I've destroyed Ulquiorra. No need for me to go any further.**

**I don't know if you can tell, but I tried different-ish writing styles to match how I think they'd narrate. Like, Grimmjow's uses less fancy words and is more straight-to-the-point while Ulquiorra's matches my regular writing style and phrases things funkily. Ulquiorra narrates with the little details, since it seems like he'd do that, and some of his pride and disdain are smuggled in-between the lines. **

**But, I digress. I hope you liked this chappie.^^**


	3. In Which Grimmjow is Confused

**Warnings: There's a bit voyeurism in the locker room.**

* * *

**III.**

Ulquiorra looks like a fucking truck ran over him, which, as the good neighbor I am, is exactly what I tell him. I don't tell him that he should stay home if he doesn't feel well, because that isn't me, and that would mean that I care.

Which I don't.

Instead, I watch him half-asleep against the window. He's ridiculously pale, and his breathing is a little off. At stoplights I stare at him because now I have an excuse for what I've been doing for this past month and a half.

I don't even have to hide that I'm looking at him, because he's too tired to notice. The hair that usually falls between his eyes blows off to the side, and I smile a little. His fingers clutch at the arm rests until his hands are white.

Yeah, I notice the little things. He's shivering but it looks like he's on fire, and his eyes are dull.

This bothers me a bit, but I pretend like nothing's wrong.

.

"I always see you with that kid, Grimmjow," Nnoitra snarls, flicking his tongue at me. It's fucking creepy, but I can't control him being in this class with me. It's homeroom, and of course our last names are near each other in the alphabet.

"I see Ulquiorra once," I point out, annoyed. Why the hell does everyone I know have to mention him? I knew who Nnoitra was talking about even when he wasn't that specific. "You're in that same class, stupid."

The bastard smiles like I'm a liar, reminding me why I hate him. "But you drive _Ulquiorra_ here, don't you?" I want to punch his fucking face in, but there are witnesses. Lucky for me, they all seem to be listening to the announcements.

"And?" I grit my teeth.

"Aren't you worried you're gonna fuck his ugly ass?"

_He's not ugly_, I surprise myself by thinking. The thought shocks me enough to keep me unusually quiet, and I stop my mind from continuing. I don't know what's going on.

Nnoitra laughs because I don't answer. "What? Did you two already. . ."

"Shut the fuck up," I snap, grabbing his ridiculously large collar. It's a stupid move, because Nnoitra is taller and stronger than me. He pushes me away easily. I feel an adrenaline rush.

"Geez, Jaegerjacquez. You shouldn't be so defensive about it. If you're gay, you're gay." He smiles his weird smile again and clucks his tongue.

"That's not what I meant, Jiruga." My hands clench.

"Next time, don't make your love looks so obvious."

"What the hell're you talking about?"

"You stare at him all the time. Like you own him or something." Nnoitra rolls his eyes. "Pathetic." I have no idea what he means. I don't stare at Ulquiorra—unless we're in the car and he doesn't notice—and I definitely don't look at him possessively. "Oh, come on," he adds, "I bet by the end of the year you two'll fuck in the backseat."

I try to push those half-disturbing half-arousing images from my head. They're only exciting because it's sex. Not because it's Ulquiorra. "Go to hell."

He smirks, leaning back into his seat. The announcements are over, so anything we say is fair game now. "By the end of the year, Jaegerjacquez. . ."

.

"So, umm, Grimmjow. . ." She laughs nervously, playing with her hair as she talks. "I know that it's not my place to ask. . . but are you, like, maybe going to Homecoming?"

I shrug, looking past her to see if there's some way I can leave before she asks—

"Go with me?" This girl chokes it out so I almost can't hear. I'm surprised that she asked _me_. I have a fucking reputation for rejecting everyone.

The look on her face says she's begging me to say yes. But I don't know this girl's name, we've never talked before, and she's not attractive to me. I don't feel all that guilty when I tell her no.

"Oh." She looks sad, "Are you sure? I mean, I know I never. . . But still, you could like. . ."

"Sorry, but I don't know you." It's a dumb excuse, but what I am supposed to say? That even though I don't think she's hot, I don't know who she is, and I don't want to go to Homecoming, I'll go with _her_?

"But, Grimmjow!" I don't know if she's going to cry, but I can't deal with this, with crying girls.

"Hey," I put my hand on her shoulder, "I'm sorry." I don't sound all that convincing, but the look on my face seems to make her believe me.

"Okay, well, if you ever change your mind. . ." I almost let out a sigh of relief. "I sit at the lunch table by the broken vending machine."

I nod and slip past her as she goes to talk to someone else. This isn't the first time I've had to reject someone.

I'm on my way to art when I hear someone call me. "Did you just say no to Neliel?" I frown and see Nnoitra's ugly face. Great.

"You want her?" I'm glaring at him, ready to smash his face in and stuff him in a locker.

"She's fuckin' hot. Look at her. . ." He shakes his head at me as if he's surprised. "You _sure_ you're not—"

"I'm not. Piss off." I'm in a terrible mood when I stomp into the art classroom, but I feel the heaviness slip away when Ulquiorra runs into me so his face rubs against my chest, warmth making me shiver.

.

I don't know why I notice this, but a lot of Ulquiorra hasn't changed. It's been four fucking years, and he still has these weird conversation habits. He still talks and stares at me, without blinking, as though it's normal. He still makes me act different from when I'm in public.

With October only halfway through, it's been almost two months since I started driving him to and from Hueco Mundo. In that time, we have not become friends again, like my mother expected we would have.

Sure, we talk more than before. I want to hate him. I want to be loud and spontaneous, and talking to him mellows me out. His habit of staring at me makes me want to grab his throat, but it forces me to look right back at him.

And it's made me notice a hell of a lot of things I don't _want_ to notice. He's stronger than he looks—has _something_ more than just bones under his shirt—and he's like a baby in that he's hairless and blemish-free. I don't even want to know how I know this.

It's disgusting.

I shouldn't notice things like that, so I try to focus on other stuff. Whenever I do, though, I just end up smelling him or touching his hair, or something that could be romantic if it wasn't _Ulquiorra_. Who, for the record, is a _boy_.

He reminds me of the past, which I want to forget. I don't want to be friends again, but I want to at the same time. I want to hate him.

I want to hate him, but I can't picture my life without him. He's _Ulquiorra_.

.

"Ulquiorra's become quite the looker, hasn't he?" I stare at my mom like she's lost it, almost choking on the water I'm drinking. If she's expecting me to agree with her, she definitely _has_ lost it. "I bet all the girls are vying for his attention. He has the most beautiful eyes."

His eyes are green, and, yeah, they look good on his face, and they are a shade I've never seen before. So what? And maybe his eyes are shaped uniquely, with the tears looking fucking pretty on his face. . . But I don't see how they're _beautiful_.

"Girls don't want him, trust me."

Mom looks up from chopping vegetables and wipes her forehead. "Oh, but he's charming, isn't he? His tears are rather depressing, but you have to admit. . ."

"Yep, Ulquiorra's fuckin' adorable." I nod and agree before I even realize what I'm saying. What the hell is wrong with me?

She ignores my 'foul language.' "It would have been cute if you two double-dated. You could've done that for, what's-it-called, your Homecoming. You didn't go last year, and it would be fun to find a tuxedo for you."

"I _really_ doubt we could do that," I grumble. Awkwardness all around.

I didn't even realize Ulquiorra was _that_ sick—he'd been okay in art—until he'd scrambled away from me looking shittier than ever. I guess I'd made it worse with my driving.

"Why don't you ask him, though?"

I wonder if my mom _knows_ Ulquiorra is gay. Her questions are so fucking double-sided. She's asking me, a guy, if I think he's hot, if he has nice eyes, if we could double date. Really.

"Sure I'll ask him." She doesn't see the sarcasm and hidden anger.

"Okay," she chirps. "You boys were thick as thieves, remember? Ulquiorra used to follow you everywhere. Used to worship you like God, and you used to _revel_ in it." I grit my teeth. "And, my goodness, you used to get so _dirty_ playing out back. I'd have to clean you both up before his father came and saw him."

She laughs as though it's a funny joke, and I scowl. She uses every fucking innuendo, doesn't she? "That was a long time ago."

"What happened?" She's been trying to figure this out ever since she asked if Ulquiorra was coming over and I said he wasn't. I don't see how it was such a big deal, but she won't shut the hell up about it.

"He changed." I sound like a girl talking about her ex-boyfriend. Gay.

"No, I think—" I stand up and shoot toward the door before she can make this conversation rotate fully around Ulquiorra. Again. A month of daily contact after years of ignoring him, I think I've done enough.

"He left some shit in my car, so I'm gonna. . ." She nods happily without saying anything, and I run from the room before she throws in a disturbing comment.

Conversations about Ulquiorra have always been awkward, and it doesn't help that my mother's obsessed with him. Now though, that I've used his books as an excuse, I guess I should go and drop them off. Damn. I was planning on ignoring everything.

Outside, I pull his binders and textbook from my car and walk slowly to his house. I haven't been here since Ulquiorra was five. Mom had taken me in so we could 'visit the new neighbors,' and while she and Mr. Cifer socialized, I stalked his son.

It was fucking disturbing.

After I ring the doorbell and wait ten seconds, I try the door, which is unlocked.

It's my lucky day.

He must have felt terrible if he left the door open.

Inside the Cifer family house is exactly as I pictured it to be. It smells like bleach, and everything's neat and in order, unlike in my house, where everything's just chucked all over the place. It doesn't feel like anyone lives here, so if I didn't know any better, I'd think that Ulquiorra lived alone.

I feel like a stalker again—because I'm looking through his things instead of actually giving him his crap, which was my excuse to come in here—so I move up the stairs loudly. I'm probably giving the guy a heart attack, but it's his own damn fault.

Upstairs, there are three doors. I'm assuming it's two bedrooms and a bathroom. They're all white, so I throw one of them open—literally, 'cuz I slammed the thing against the wall hard enough to dent it—and hope for the best.

Once again, it's my lucky day.

Ulquiorra is dead to the world. If he hadn't heard me stampeding up his stairs and kicking down his door, he has to be.

His room is small, with a bed in the corner and a desk on the other side of the room. It's so quiet, I wouldn't have thought he was in here. I don't remember what his room looked like when he was younger, but it probably looked the same.

There's a hunk of Ulquiorra on the bed. I snicker. A half-assed idea to throw the textbook on his head forms in my mind, but he mumbles something before I can do it.

I don't know what he said, but I spin around, ready to shout at him for pissing me off. Except my voice won't work, and there's a lump in my throat that won't fucking go _down_. The room feels hot.

I'm staring at his ass. The butt of little ol' Ulquiorra Cifer. He's not naked 'er anything, but his back is toward me and his shirt has risen slightly. There's a stretch of pale skin that's making my mouth dry.

No.

_No._

NO.

I am not getting a hard on because of _him_.

A guy.

And not just any guy, it's Ulquiorra. He doesn't even _qualify_ as a guy. And guys shouldn't be doing this to me in the first place.

I'm not gay. I can't be.

I mean. . . I've never been all that interested in the girls at Hueco Mundo, but it can't be because. . .

Nnoitra's words come back to me, and I want to kill him. And I want to kill Ulquiorra for being the one to fucking do this.

My fists clench tightly around his books, and I'm pretty sure his stuff's been badly crumpled now.

We stopped being friends because of this shit; shit that has eyes looking at body parts that shouldn't be left _out in the open_.

Even porn's never fucking excited me like this.

My eyes won't leave Ulquiorra's back, and he shifts a little in his sleep. Of_ course_ his shirt goes up higher.

He buries himself into the mattress, a soft sigh making me shiver. His shirt is black so his skin seems soft and perf— I turn away so fast I could've broken my neck. Fuck_fuck_FUCK.

I bet he's doing this on purpose, because he knows it's bugging me. Knows it's making me think of—

Shit.

I hear the bed sheets again and I'm so ridiculously relieved to see that he's facing me now, I can't even describe it. I try to relax.

Relax.

Relax. . .

Black hair falls onto his face, and his mouth is opened a little. His tattoos make him look younger. If we were friends, I'd ask him about them again.

He breathes softly, and I watch him sleep. My fingers itch to touch him. My dick wants him in general. I'm getting a fucking _boner_ just _looking_ at the bastard.

I put his books down and leave, horrified. Walking is a pain in the ass.

"You were gone a _while_, Grimmy," Mom laughs when I stomp up the stairs. "Did you have _fun_?"

Her double-sided meanings piss me off. If she knows, if she _knows_. . .

"Hell no," I mutter on my way to the bathroom.

.

I sleep and don't dream about anything. It's a fucking relief.

.

Ulquiorra peers at me, his face stupidly blank so I have no idea if he's mad or not. "Were you in my room?"

"What?" I snap so it doesn't sound like I'm guilty. Which I'm not. I wasn't turned on when I was there. Hell no.

"You dropped off my things," he says as he straightens the books on his lap. I stare at his lap, where his coc—He doesn't look much better compared to yesterday, but at least he won't throw up all over my car. His eyes never leave my face and I scowl, tightening my grip on the steering wheel.

"No shit."

He keeps looking at me, won't take his _fucking_ eyes off me, the entire trip. I try not to think about him so whatever happened _yesterday_ won't happen again. I'm so relieved when we're on school property; I almost dance out of the car.

"About my books. . . It was. . . appreciated," he says finally, when I'm about to run off. He stands by the car door awkwardly. I guess this is Ulquiorra's way of saying thanks. Strangely enough, I get that. I'm not good with acting grateful, either.

"'Twas nothin'," I mumble. He won't stop watching me. It's weird and uncomfortable, but I guess, if he knows what happened, it's his form of payback for yesterday.

I smile a little, kinda embarrassed, and for the first time since we started school, we walk to the building together.

.

"What's my background s'posed to be?" I repeat dumbly, the ugly sketch of my face in the woman's hands.

"Yes. It should represent who you are on the inside. Who are you, Grimmjow?" I almost want to strangle her for being such an obnoxious, obvious hippie art teacher.

"I'm in high school, how the hell should I know?" I argue. I feel Ulquiorra's eyes on me and I turn to snap something at him. "What'r—" I've been acting crabby today because, in my other classes, not only would Ulquiorra not leave my mind, his influence made me think about _other guys_.

"Grimmjow." I'm forced to look at her as she taps at my ugly-ass drawing. "Think of something that shows your true colors. Do you have any hobbies?"

"Sports. Basketball, I guess." I sound bored, and it's hard not to notice. I'm not _that_ into it. I'm a natural athlete, but I don't care too much.

"I can tell you don't love the sport like you love, say, your girlfriend. Draw what's in your heart. On your _soul_." She stops her cheesy talk to help someone at another table, and I'll be lying if I say I'm not relieved.

How the fuck am I supposed to know what's _on my soul_? This assignment is shit.

"Stop fucking staring at me," I growl at Ulquiorra. Him being at this art table is making me uncomfortable.

"I'm not." Ulquiorra looks at me for a moment before turning back to his own project, which I'm sure he's doing so fucking _marvelously_ on.

Because he _knows_ who he is, the little bastard. He knows that he's gay and he's open about it. He doesn't have to worry about boners in the middle of his art class because he's not sure what's going on anymore. He doesn't wonder if maybe, possibly he might be—should not be—gay.

But I can't be, I really can't be.

I'm not. Mom would kill me and I'd be murdered by school. Ulquiorra would laugh because he converted me, which isn't even fucking _possible_. I wouldn't be able to deal with that.

Yesterday was just a fluke. Because. . . Because. . .

"You look like a fucking girl, Ulquiorra," I shout at him. He stops moving and stiffens in his seat; what I said is so random. People from the other tables laugh, and it makes me feel better, somewhat. I still have control. No one _else_ thinks I'm gay.

Because I'm not.

Ulquiorra looking like a girl—that has to be the reason for yesterday. He has curves, somewhat. His hair's long. He's small enough. He smells nice.

He glances at me coldly with his usual, unreadable expression. "Trash." He coughs into his hand and turns away. I remember that he's still sick.

I don't know if he was insulted or not, but whatever 'progress' we had on our supposed 'relationship' was probably thrown away with my rude comment. Some people are still snickering.

When he turns away, I frown. Ulquiorra's built differently, so his 'looking like a girl' can't mean anything. I know he has a cock. He may move and act like a girl sometimes, but Ulquiorra is definitely a boy.

It's pissing me off. I'm not fucking _supposed_ to like guys. It's wrong wrong wrong.

"Hmph." I watch my art project until my eyes water and the lines blur together. When the bell rings I run from the room.

.

My French and history classes weren't as hard as art had been, but sitting in a room surrounded by guys—who're making me uncomfortable today of all days because I'm noticing things I guess I've always noticed before—and thinking of what stupid _Ulquiorra_ was able to do to me was a pain in the ass.

I leave history early enough to get to the gym. I need some papers for basketball, 'cuz the season's starting soon.

"Just a second, Jaegerjacquez," Coach mutters. "I know I put those forms here somewhere. . ." He bends down to look for the papers and I'm bored as hell. I'm tempted to leave, but I don't have anything better to do. Gym is my next class, anyway. I lean back in the chair I'm sitting in and close my eyes.

I hear the door to the locker room open—whenever it does, I can hear the sounds from the gym or hallway—and I turn around. I look through the double-glass window-thing that looks like a mirror from the other side. It's Ulquiorra.

He's alone, but I could have expected that much, considering no one would want to change with him there. He moves quickly, tearing off his gym shirt and pulling his uniform from his locker. I stare at his torso for a moment before he's buttoned half of the shirt. I try to drag my eyes away from his chest, but I fucking _can't_.

"Here it—wait, never mind."

I can't look away as Ulquiorra pulls off his sweatpants and sneakers and puts on his oversized uniform pants. Then he's in his shoes and disappears to the hallway for his next class.

I lick my lips and turn away as the sounds of my classmates pour into the locker room. They were waiting for the gay guy to leave.

"Got it!" Coach thrusts the paper at me. "Get your doctor to fill out the bottom so you can try out."

I nod, dazed. I'd come in here directly after history so I could get the paperwork to play basketball. I didn't realize that Ulquiorra's gym class was still in, or I wouldn't have come.

He is still on my mind when I change into my gym uniform. This time, I'm also curious—I'm staring at _everyone_ now. I could say, if I only wanted Ulquiorra, that I'm definitely not gay. But I'm looking at other people, too. I'm not so sure.

At least it isn't fucking _obvious_.

.

After the awkward time in the locker room, I'm a one-man stampede to my car.

Minutes pass before I'm annoyed. Ulquiorra is on time for _everything_. For some reason, though, he's always late in getting here so I can drive him home. Sometimes, I'm tempted to drive away without him, but I know I couldn't do that.

When I finally see the mystery that is Ulquiorra, I feel like strangling him. He has a couple books and he's walking like he has all the time in the world. Which he doesn't.

"Hurry the hell up," I snap at him. He seems surprised but doesn't speed up at all, like he wants to purposely annoy me. His slow walking is probably his form of revenge for me saying that he looks like a girl.

_Finally_ Ulquiorra stops in front of the car and gives me a weird look, a smirk, almost.

A car nearby pulls out of its parking spot and its driver chooses that exact moment to throw a plastic bottle at Ulquiorra's head. "Fuckin' fag!" the guy snickers, driving off.

I stare at him with what I hope is an unreadable expression. People treat him like shit for being openly gay. It would suck if I was. . . But I'm not. I'm not gay.

"Who was that?" I ask, trying to sneer at him.

Ulquiorra shrugs as if nothing happened, and, ironically, says, "Garbage." I hate how he brushes off these situations entirely. The wind pulls at his hair and his uniform suddenly seems to cover too little of his skin. Our eyes are battling with each other, seeing who will look away first.

Memories of yesterday make me lose.

After we stand there awkwardly for a minute, he gestures to the car, "Aren't you going to open the door?" He shivers a little, reminding me that he's still sick, despite his front at school.

I unlock the car and watch as he climbs in, the movements smooth and precise. He sinks into the seat and looks up at me questioningly.

It's hot.

* * *

**With me being a girl, I don't know if I've gotten the 'sexual identity from a guy's perspective' down right. I'm doing the best I can, though, with what I've read and been told. I tried to hint at it in the first chapter, but I know it hadn't really been enough. Still, I had fun writing this, and it came to me really quickly. XD I feel like it's kinda short, though.**

**I guess this also could've been a let down, considering it didn't have any Grimmjow-taking-care-of-Ulquiorra fluff. But I'm lazy and my so-called fluff scenes are all crap. Maybe next chapter. (Where I have a bunch of cheese planned. XD)**

**Thanks for reading and reviewing, everyone. I've been uber-happy reading your thoughts. I hope you liked this chapter.**


	4. In Which Ulquiorra Sleeps

**IV**.

"Hey, do you have a computer?" Grimmjow's question surprises me. I turn to face him, my eyes meeting a piercing blue gaze.

I shift in my seat and cough as he turns into our neighborhood. "Why?"

"My mom's using ours, and I need to do some stuff," he says quickly, parking the car and turning to face me. "You have one, then?"

It's obvious he's lying about his own computer, though I see no reason as to why. "The library has some," I point out. I don't understand why he can't use one that belongs to a friend of his.

"I hate that place." Grimmjow has always hated the library, hated reading in general.

"You have friends."

"Everyone'll stand over my shoulder and see what I'm doing," he says with a grin. I didn't know he has things to hide.

Still, I believe it is only fair that I let him use my computer, considering he's been driving me to and from school without any proper acknowledgement from me. I nod, unbuckling my seatbelt. "What do you need to do?"

"Just research for school, nothin' specific." He looks at me seriously, and I nod again. I don't believe he will do anything illegal.

"When would be an appropriate time?"

"Well, I was thinking now," he smirks, getting out of the car. I'm not sure if he's trying to challenge me, but the look in his eyes stirs up my confusion.

"Now is fine," I agree slowly, trying not to be overtly suspicious. I do have to wonder what has brought up his sudden change of character, for it was during art today that he deemed it necessary to insult my appearance. Grimmjow doesn't enjoy my company, yet he spends an abnormal amount of time with me.

He starts walking to my house, a fact that annoys me as it is _my_ house, and therefore I should lead him.

I brush past him to prove this point before I unlock the door and let him inside.

"You can just go up to my room, as you already know where it is." I'm referring to how he'd dropped off my schoolbooks yesterday. It's strange, knowing that he was in here without me even knowing. It's also quite awkward, considering he was probably breaking and entering. If he wasn't Grimmjow, I would have called the police.

"Sure. What're you gonna do?" He's climbing the stairs two at a time, so I don't bother to answer that I'm still feeling a little off.

I take some ibuprofen for my headache and follow him a minute later.

In my room, it is obvious that he has made himself at home. He's lounging on the chair by my desk, smirking at me. "Why'd you still have this?"

I don't know what he's talking about. My room is bare, for it is pointless to decorate a residence I will leave in a few years. I blink at him disinterestedly, not curious in the least. "Pardon?"

Grimmjow waves a picture at me, and I catch a brief glimpse of it before he slides it into the drawer of my desk. I'm sure he returned the photograph to where I'd left it in the first place. "Sentimental, aren't you, Ulquiorra?"

I don't know if he's trying to mock me by disregarding the past, but I keep the picture for memories' sake. It is in the drawer because I don't need to look at it constantly. "Do you normally go through other people's things when you go to their homes?"

He laughs, and I'm forced to remember how I used to make him laugh at lot, when we were younger. My mouth is a thin line when he answers, "Only you."

Once again, he renders me speechless. I dislike not knowing what he's thinking and how his thinking process works. I don't have time to ponder this, however, for I feel the ibuprofen kick in. I stifle a yawn.

I don't quite like the idea of sleeping while a guest is over, but Grimmjow hardly counts as a guest, and he's already been in here while I slept. "I'm going to take a quick nap." It's a Friday, and I can do my homework assignments either later tonight or early tomorrow. "Should you finish early, you may leave."

"You're gonna sleep?" For some unfathomable reason, he freezes. His previously relaxed posture is now stiff.

"Why?" I place my school books on the desk, taking the chance to look at his face. He was in here yesterday while I was asleep, and it hadn't bothered him at all. I honestly can never decipher what Grimmjow is feeling; he's quite inconsistent and unpredictable. "Do you need something?"

"Nothing," he turns away, though it's obvious that something is worrying him.

I stare at him for a minute before shaking my head warily, "If it troubles you, I cou—"

"Just sleep." I feel my body almost wilting in relief, but I hide it well. I eye him curiously. "You can fuckin' sleep."

Despite my incessant curiosity, I pursue the topic no further and lie on my bed. I sink into the covers gratefully, the instant comfort revealing how tired I truly am.

I almost expect that I will have a hard time getting comfortable, especially when I'm aware that another person is in the room, but it doesn't seem to be the case. I suppose I've just grown accustomed to Grimmjow's presence.

The sound of the keyboard tapping merges with his loud breathing, relaxing me.

With the ibuprofen, sleep comes quickly.

.

I open my eyes to Grimmjow hovering over me. Based on his appearance, it almost seems as if he's searching for something. Not knowing how long he has been sitting here is exasperating, and I feel rather uncomfortable.

"Heh," he smirks at me, and I sit up. We stare at each other, which I've found we do quite often. I do not know why he looks at me—most likely to decipher why I watch him—but my habit of tracing his features and committing them to memory is easy to interpret.

"Did you finish your research?" I ask finally. I will not pry into his private life, and I assume he has cleared the history on my computer to keep me from doing so anyway.

I have to wonder why he's still here and was staring at me while I was sleeping.

He doesn't look happy, as though the information he'd found online wasn't what he'd hoped for. I can't place what he's feeling based on his facial expressions. "Yeah." For some reason unknown to me, he touches my arm.

We may have been friends before, but I broke that barrier and effectively ended that. We certainly aren't friends now, at least not to my knowledge.

He should not be _touching_ me when he should find me repulsive.

More accurately, I should not _want_ to lean into the warmth of his touch like a love struck woman, to succumb to these feelings.

I do want to touch him, though, and I know better than to show it. "Grimmjow." It is not a question. "What are you doing?" I brush his hand away in what I believe is a moderate manner, though my eyes never leave his face. "What are you trying to prove?" I can't think of any reason for these movements save for teasing me, for he knows how I felt about him.

"Well, _shit_, Ulquiorra, are you always suspicious of _everything_?" he snaps, embarrassed, as he should be. His hands clench into fists.

I blink, unsure of what exactly he is saying. "I don't—"

"Here." He thrusts a glass of water at me. "You're sick, aren't you?"

I glance at the cup in my hands and look back to him. "Did you talk to your mother recently?" It would account for his sudden change of character and would relieve me greatly. I need the answers.

"I can't be nice for five seconds, can I?" He glares at me. "And, fine, I fucking talked to her." I don't know if I should be pleased or worried, but whichever emotion I choose will not be present or readable on my face.

The woman is tolerable, and I have to admit I was fonder of her when I was younger. She irritates me on occasion, especially when she rants about religion, but she tends to have my best interests at heart. Should she ever forget her hatred for homosexuals, I will welcome her.

If only she could find a way to tone down. Perhaps one day she'll realize that Grimmjow hates me now.

"Do you still consider me the sentimental one?" I speculate aloud, knowing there will never be an answer. Regardless, I take a sip of water, never tearing my eyes away as I do so. The water returns strength to my body, and I therefore continue drinking.

Grimmjow smirks. "See? That wasn't so hard."

I place the now-empty glass on the side table next to the bed and bring my knees to my chest. "Is this why you're still here?" I don't sound grateful in the least, but it's not in my nature to act as such.

"Sure." I don't know if it is his acknowledging my hidden appreciation or his answer to my question, but I do not pursue the topic.

We sit in silence. It seems as though he wants to say something, but he changes his mind when I meet his gaze.

"Grimmjow," I acknowledge at last. "You may leave."

Grimmjow loves his mother, always follows her requests, but I know he finds her frustrating. "She wants me to fuckin' take care of you." He goes on to explain how he didn't explicitly tell her that I was feeling ill but that her occupation as a nurse made it impossible for him to escape.

"What exactly did you say to her?"

"Oh." Grimmjow smiles sheepishly, glancing at the clock on my wall. "I hope you fucking feel better."

Because his statement is addressed to me, in present tense, and not an appropriate answer to my question, I wonder whether he is addressing me now or if it is what he said to his mother. I pester him no further.

"Tell her that I appreciate her concern." It is a statement with finality, Grimmjow's cue to leave, but he stares at me oddly instead. Unable to read his eyes and expression, I frown. "I amuse you."

"You used to get sick a lot before." It is true that as a child, I'd gotten colds frequently, but after the few years where I hadn't fallen ill, I'd assumed I had grown past it.

Even now, I don't believe I'm sick. My muscles ache, my head hurts, and I sleep more than usual, but no sickness really matches such a description. I find the change of weather to be the cause, and I should feel better before Monday. There is no need to worry, for my guesses are usually correct.

It is interesting that he chooses to remember our past when it seems to fit his needs, but he otherwise mocks me for not forgetting.

I still refuse to consider he actually _cares_, so my tone is rather cold when I ask, "Do you require anything else?"

Grimmjow smiles uncomfortably, "I'll fucking regret this."

"Then do not continue." He should know better than to do what will later call for repentance. If not, he should look at all his decisions and try not to see them as mistakes.

"My mom insisted," I don't like where he's going with this, "so I'm gonna stay."

"I'd prefer you do not." I take a look at the determination set in his features before adding, "You'll only be watching me sleep again." A quick glance at the clock tells me it has only been an hour.

"Well, we all know how fucking adorable you are when you sleep." There is no sarcasm in his voice, nor is there a joking tone. The statement had been neutral, and he stares at me seriously until it I realize that he could have been sincere, should I choose to interpret it that way. I do not, for that would be a lie.

Regardless, the room feels warmer and the neck of my shirt feels tighter. I cough into my hand and we both watch each other, my apprehension rising because of his comment.

Is Grimmjow so spiteful that he would tell me something flirtatious for the sake of discomforting me? He _knows_ that I like males. He _knows_ that I liked him. He still makes such crude statements.

"Do not mock me," I say finally, closing my eyes.

In school, my classmates often act inappropriately to gauge my reaction, which never seems to match their expectations. I don't know how much more I can take if another person rubs against me in the classroom just to see what I will do.

My head is pounding as I start to cough. "Stay if you want. The matter is garbage."

He grunts in response, and it further irritates me that I cannot read his movements like I can everyone else.

.

Grimmjow is one surprise after another, and if I ever wake up to this again, I will personally see to his destruction. I'm sure my annoyance is obvious, for I can feel Grimmjow's thigh against my waist, his grip on my arm. "Grimmjow?"

He smirks at me as if he's actually done what his mother demanded of him. Other than watching me sleep and occasionally fetching a glass of water, he has not. "Feeling better?"

My body feels warmer, obviously, when he's so close to my face. I cannot understand how, despite his aversion for me, he seems to think there are no boundaries between us. One day he will have to realize that his movements affect me. "If it will make you leave, yes."

"I got yer medicine. These pills, right?" He, thankfully, extracts himself from the bed, taking a bottle from the table.

I pull myself up and blink, letting the heat that swarmed through my body settle down. "Do you ever think before you act?"

He looks at me oddly before laughing, "Hell no." If he did, I'm sure both of our lives would be a lot easier. I keep my eyes focused on his face, finding that I still haven't forgotten the small details.

He still has such long eyelashes. His eyes are still the shade of blue I've yet to see on another person.

Wordlessly, I take the pills from him and swallow, emptying the small glass of water much faster than I had anticipated. I wonder if my discomfort is obvious but know it is not, so I push it aside.

"I'm bored," he announces, and his statement is worthless.

"You chose to stay here," I point out sourly. "Leave if you must."

"Yeah, well. . ." He frowns, as though he has something to say but can't actually say it. Whenever he looks at me in this manner, I find I know him less, yet I relate to him more. I do not understand it. He spits out the words in a similar manner to how he had suggested he stay here. "Get ready."

I usually don't have mistakes in my hearing, but the absurdity of his words astounds me. "What?"

"I'm taking you out." He grins, as though the idea is genius. Now certain I'd heard correctly, I fall back against the pillows of my bed. No. Grimmjow reads the rejection in my eyes and continues, "Your house sucks, I'm hungry, and you're fucking boring."

"Go back to your house, then, if it bothers you so much." Grimmjow's logic fails to impress me, and I am not in the mood of leaving where I'm comfortable. Spending time with Grimmjow, appealing as it might be, is simply out of the question.

I cannot take the risk of friendship again.

"I wouldn't be able to argue with you, though." For a brief moment, I believe that he wants to spend time with me. "C'mon. It'll make you feel better."

Somehow, the idea of socializing with the person who's put me through so much does not make me feel better. "I'm not convinced."

"Hey, we're going to spend the whole damn year together." I wait for him to continue, for he's paused to think of more to say. "If you make this year shit. . ."

I don't see the point of this. "Your threats mean nothing."

"Well, you're fucking getting ready," he snaps. He almost lunges for me, but holds back at the last moment.

To humor him, I get up and change my clothes.

.

After spending so much time with Grimmjow in school, I don't know what to expect in an outside environment. The moon shines brightly, and I feel awkward standing here.

"Don't act like this is your first time." He rolls his eyes when he sees me. I don't know what my expression looks like that he finds me entertaining, but I know I'm unabashedly staring at him. It has been a while since he was in front of me in something other than his uniform.

The loose-fitting blue shirt and jeans he's wearing look good. _He_ looks good. I bite my tongue to avoid saying so, knowing it will go to his head.

He laughs a little, hidden nerves releasing themselves at my expense. "Hormones, Ulquiorra," he chastises at my silence, taunting directed toward me yet again. I have to wonder why he makes so many comments that could make him uncomfortable as well. Ignoring his words, I slide into his car.

"Where are we going?" I try to make up for my earlier movements.

"Food," he laughs, "I'm fucking _hungry_." Surely enough, it is only a few minutes before Grimmjow turns the car into a fast food establishment I myself have never spent time in.

Eating out doesn't appeal much to me when the food is disgusting and my stomach most likely won't hold it. "I'm not."

He, playfully, I'm willing to assume, slaps my shoulder and leaves the car. I sit there for a moment, unsure of what to do, before I follow him inside.

I order a small packet of French fries, to refrain from being rude. Grimmjow rattles off an order of 'nuggets, a burger, and a Coke' as though he comes here daily. I wouldn't be surprised if he said that he did.

When we sit down, I across from him, in a booth by a window, I am forced to notice how much our encounter looks like a date.

My classmates usually spend time with each other in groups of three or more. A party of only two—where one is homosexual and the other was at one point the object of said homosexual's affections—seems suspicious.

I dip my fry into the cup of ketchup slowly, focusing solely on Grimmjow's expression.

I wonder if he is embarrassed to be seen with me, if he realizes what it looks like to others if he is seen with me. I purposely mention nothing so as to keep the peace. He never asked for my opinion, so I will not supply it.

"Quit staring at me like that," he throws a chicken nugget at me. It bounces off my nose, leaving a sickening amount of oil in its wake. I try to rub it away. "It's weird."

I cannot see how my looking at him is unusual—it has become habit in our car rides for us to sit and simply watch each other—and I know for a fact that he has looked oddly at me before, but I nod anyway.

Unsure of what to pay attention to and with no idea of a conversation topic, I stare at his hands.

Grimmjow has large hands, with long fingers. Minutes pass, and we sit in silence as I focus on him this way.

He pokes at his last nugget before saying, "That isn't better." I privately brace myself for another barrage of fast food items, but Grimmjow surprises me yet again with his actions.

His fingers brush against my chin, and he brings my face upward so I stare at him in a different angle. It accentuates his size over me, something I never noticed until now.

My face heats up. I hate to think of it in this manner, but for lack of better word, Grimmjow is _flirting_. I may not socialize much, but rarely have two boys ever engaged in contact such as this.

I'm sure he doesn't even understand.

Peculiar occasions such as these are the reasons _why_ I rarely mingle with others. Most boys my age will flirt to get under my skin. I don't believe Grimmjow is aware of what he does, of what he's _doing_, but it manages to irk and please me nonetheless.

The room feels warm, but I do not stutter. "What are you doing?" My voice remains calm, and, as expected, does not reveal my embarrassment.

Licking his fingers clean of oil and crumbs, he ignores my question entirely—a trait that, unfortunately, he learned from me. "You can blink sometimes, you know." He nods knowingly at me, as though he has just given me advice that will save my life.

With nothing to say I simply _blink_—which makes him smile and makes me exhale—but my face remains stoic I eat another French fry. I'm dumbfounded.

.

"Did ya have fun?" Grimmjow smirks, and I have to wonder if he throws food at and somewhat-flirts with all of his friends. In any case, we will not be spending time together, other than for the car rides to and from Hueco Mundo, again.

"It wasn't the worst situation in the world," I admit, flicking my gaze toward him to read his expression.

He smiles, pleased with himself, and drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "We could go somewhere else, if you want." It seems like a pointless question, considering we're parked in front of my house and talking, so I shake my head.

"That won't be necessary." I glance at the time on the dashboard, "My father will be home soon."

"Have a fucking bedtime?" he laughs, for he has only seen my father once, and it had only been a brief glance before he'd gone to find me. I'm sure he is curious, but it never occurs to me to let them meet each other.

"Perhaps, if you prefer to view it as such."

We look at each other for a moment, and I clear my throat. "I'll see you on Monday, then."

Had this outing been a date, this would be the moment we would kiss. It is not, and I do not fool myself into believing it as such. Besides, Grimmjow is not, well, _gay_.

He shrugs, unaware of my thoughts, but grinning in a manner that makes it seem like he is. "Yeah, see ya."

.

I almost convince myself that this is what our friendship would have become, had I not tried to kiss Grimmjow those many years ago.

Because we're neighbors, I assume that we would have spent a lot of time together. Grimmjow would still drive me around, only he'd do so willingly. We would have spent most of our time at his house, for mine has no source of entertainment.

For years, Grimmjow was my confidant, and it seems only fitting that years later, he is the only one I will ever trust in that same way.

I'm repulsive; I'm acting like trash.

I've only been in two relationships before, one when I was in seventh grade and the other in eighth grade. Last year, I'd agreed to go on a date with one boy—he goes to the Seireitei School rather than Hueco Mundo—because he was pestering me for so long.

Our first date had been to watch a movie, _Nights in Rukongai_, and afterward, we had gone for a walk in the park. We did not talk much and did not kiss, on that date or on any others. I went out with him again, but each time I wondered about what I was supposed to feel rather than what I was feeling, which was barely anything.

Honestly, I'd been more apprehensive today than I had ever been last year.

I felt that the connection between us was purely platonic, and I made no attempts to change that. I felt and effectively hid my boredom, and it wasn't until I'd seen Grimmjow kissing his girlfriend that I'd felt any trace of emotion on a date.

To say the least, I was furious with myself.

If what I had with the boy from middle school could even be considered anything, we 'broke up' before the school year ended. I was calm and rather uncaring regarding the deteriorated relationship. It was bound to happen as I couldn't reciprocate his feelings.

Hypothetically, had my friendship with Grimmjow survived, there would be as much, if not more, sexual tension compared to now. Grimmjow, of course, remains oblivious to what he does to me. He does not realize that each of his movements could be interpreted differently by one who desperately needs to see something else but _wants_ to see and feel the romantic undertones.

If we continue to spend time together, I will not be able to deny this truth. It will end badly, again, for Grimmjow's feelings will never be reciprocated so long as he remains heterosexual, straight, and therefore not interested in me.

He will not, does not, want me, but I cannot lie.

Today has only proven to me that I'm falling for Grimmjow again, and I'm not quite sure I had ever stopped liking him before.

* * *

**I definitely ruined Ulquiorra's character here. XD There's a lot of fluff, though. I dunno, I like to picture the fast-food scene as a first-date situation, just 'cuz the lack of romance in, say, McDonald's makes it all the more romantic. I was gonna do a oneshot with that idea, but I'm just lazy and crammed it in here.**

**Yep, this is my longest chapter yet. It took me awhile to write, because I really don't like how it came out, but I know I can never get it better than this.**

**Hmm, could you kind of tell what Grimmjow's thinking based off of Ulquiorra's thoughts? I was trying to work it out like that, but I suck. And the Ulquiorra being sick and Grimmjow taking care of him was written before, so I tried to spice it up. I dunno if it worked, but yeah. **

**Thank you to every awesome person who's reviewed. You rock, and your reviews make me freakishly happy every time. Thank you, really.**


	5. In Which Grimmjow Hangs Out

**V.**

"Is Ulquiorra feeling better?" Her voice rings through my ears and ruins whatever the fuck I'm dreaming about. I shoot out of bed and sit up to face her; she's still in her uniform.

"Shit! Gimme a warning next time," I snap, rubbing my eyes. Why'd she have to wake me up so early? I got around five hours of sleep.

"Language, Grimmjow," she taps my shoulder with a small smile before repeating her question. "Did you take care of him?"

"Yeah," I lie back down and roll over, closing my eyes to block out the sun. I'm damn tired, and, somehow, I don't really want to explain this whole Ulquiorra-thing to my mother. It feels private. "We hung out."

"Really?" She sounds excited and probably thinks we're going to be friends again. Something bright hits my closed eyelids, and I know she's opening the curtains. "So does this mean you two have reconciled? Will I be seeing Ulquiorra over more often?"

I honestly don't know—did I lead him on with my unexplainable over-enthusiasm and yet explainable flirting—and the last thing I want is to explain everything to my mom and myself. "I guess," I mutter, memories zapping through me. I'm never gonna get back to sleep.

"Grimmjow, you're not listening to me!" What was her first clue when she wakes me up at nine in the morning? I feel like this is a bad hangover.

I assume that she's talking about what Ulquiorra and I could do together now, and she's probably going through some cheesy old friendship stories that I can't make myself forget.

"Grimmjow!" It's great that she's awake—though it's only because she works a night shift at the hospital and she just got home—but do I have to be awake, too?

"Sorry," I say sarcastically, "we're _best_ friends now."

"Don't be like that, I just wanted to know." She sighs loudly and sits at the foot of my bed, rubbing my leg in what she thinks is comforting—and it probably could be if it was a gesture from someone else. "If you want, you can invite Ulquiorra to join us at Mass tomorrow." Didn't she learn from the last time she offered?

"No."

Yesterday, I was trying to prove to myself that what happened when I dropped off his stuff hadn't happened for any particular reason.

I even fucking _flirted_ with him, despite how weird I felt at first—and I _didn't_ like it afterward, I swear, no matter how comfortable and, because I don't have another word, happy, I got with teasing with him—to show that he didn't make me hard the first time.

I was, I am, in control; Ulquiorra won't turn me on again. I'm not gay. I'm not.

Though considering that I _liked_ spending time with him and have yet to figure out why I _liked_ flirting with him, all I really proved to myself was that I don't spend that much time with my other friends.

I'd hidden how when I'd touched his face, my hand burned. I learned that his skin is soft and his hair tickles.

It's fucking _ridiculous_, and I'll _never_ say that I liked it.

'Cuz I didn't.

"Grimmjow." I roll over to look at her, scowling. Mom sighs loudly, playing with her hair. "Did you have fun? What did you do?"

"We ate. And we talked." I'm not in the mood of thinking about last night. It's too fucking early.

I stare at the walls I'm used to seeing every day, the dark blue walls covered by posters and other crap. There's a desk in the corner, but I haven't seen it in ages; it's buried in who knows what.

"God, help me." She says a silent prayer and stands up, "I'm going to take a nap, then. You can talk to me later, when you're not so crabby."

When she leaves, I feel kind of bad. But I'm not ready to tell her that I actually had fun with Ulquiorra Cifer.

.

"We're not friends, you know," I almost purr at him. It's gotten ridiculous now, how all my actions are flirty. Fuck, I hate Ulquiorra.

He shoots me an odd look before sliding into the seat and closing the door.

"I know." As usual, he moves quickly and smoothly, buckling his seatbelt and folding his hands on his lap. My eyes focus on his hands for a moment before shooting back to his face. "Why would I think otherwise?" There's nothing in his voice, pissing me off. I can never understand him if he doesn't _show_ any emotions without me having to drag them out.

Maybe he didn't see anything in what I did, and I'm just overreacting. "Just don't want you thinking that Friday meant anything," I shrug.

I wouldn't normally bring up the topic myself, but after spending a month 'reconnecting'—or whatever shit my mom called it—with Ulquiorra, I know he will never say anything. I could be happy with that, but then I'll never know.

So, weird as it is, I have to do a lot of crap myself.

He glances at me and nods, "Yes."

"What?" I'm not even sure what he means by that. It doesn't answer my question that wasn't even a question, and, fuck, it doesn't answer anything.

"Do you intend on driving us to school? It's been a while." I feel like he's mocking me and my hands are begging to grab his neck and press him against the door. I lick my lips.

I start driving anyway, deciding not to answer him and his annoying pretty-boy ass. The silence is something I've gotten used to, but it feels like I need to break it since we've hung out now. I don't try to stop the quiet, at first, but I can feel the urge to talk to him bubbling inside me.

We're halfway to school when the first thing in my mind shoots out, "When basketball season starts, you might need a different ride from school." Ulquiorra looks away from the window, and I continue quickly, "I guess if you can't find one you can stay after for something and wait for me."

He stays quiet for a moment, "I'll wait for you."

I grin, knowing it teases him. "Miss me too much?"

He sends me another unreadable look, "I don't want friends, Grimmjow." I know that, of course, as he purposely seems to avoid people at school. I'm surprised he puts up with me, even. I know why I put up with him, though. Weird as he is, Ulquiorra makes me laugh. I act different around him than my other friends.

And my mom made me. That, of course, is the main reason.

"How'd you get to your middle school, then?" My mom used to drop me off, until this year, when I can drive for myself. Before, when we were friends, she used to drop us both off to the elementary school. I guess I'd never thought about what he would do after we weren't friends anymore.

"I walked," Ulquiorra says matter-of-factly.

I stop the car at a traffic light. "You're fucking hilarious."

"It is my only means of transportation." He notices the look on my face before explaining, "My father is quite busy with his work. It is pointless to disturb him for such menial matters."

"He's your dad," I mutter. My parents are divorced, or, in my mom's words, 'annulled.' Annulled, divorced, they both mean the same thing: they aren't married anymore.

I'm not holding it against them, even if it sounds like I am. I don't care that I don't see my dad; I don't give a shit about it because it happened so long ago. 'Sides, he was probably a religion nut, too.

"Perhaps," he nods, and I realize that he would have walked to Hueco Mundo High School if my mom hadn't offered my driving. "I've grown to be rather dependent on you, Grimmjow," he comments lightly.

I turn into the school parking lot, in silent agreement with him. Surprisingly, I don't find it to be such a horrible thing.

Still, Ulquiorra says the most awkward things sometimes.

.

If I really cared about getting to class on time, I'd be running through the hallways. The bell's gonna ring in a minute and I'm on the opposite side of the building. I don't care. I walk at a good pace while other people run around me.

The colors of other people's hair—the walls are all fucking white in every room and hallway—are how I can tell everyone apart. I see a head of messy black hair and know who it is immediately.

My eyes meet with the green of Ulquiorra's, and I don't look away, for once. We're walking in opposite directions, but it almost feels like he's slowed down to see me.

If he does, I have to pretend he doesn't. It'd be too weird, considering our past friendship and what had ended it.

He could be surprised, for all I know, but he offers me a half-smile—which isn't a smile at all, he kinda just twitches the right half of his face before nodding. I don't know why I call it a half-smile, but it seems appropriate. I've never really seen Ulquiorra smile, even when he was younger.

I feel my heart beat faster, hell if I can say why, and I smile back at him.

.

"Grimmjow, I'm going to extend this project's due date for your sake, but, my goodness, it's been days and your background is _nowhere_!" She shakes her head at me before—why am I not shocked—smiling at Ulquiorra. "Your portrait looks _lovely_!"

"You are quite kind," he says politely, annoying the hell out of me. I glower at his head, watching his hair shift around as he nods like the teacher's pet he is.

"If you have the time," she adds, glancing at me, "see if you can help your friend." I'm almost about to growl that we're not friends, but I stop because I'm not so sure anymore.

The woman taps at my ugly-ass picture before walking back to her desk in the front of the room. As she walks away, I glare at her. Annoyed, I snap at Ulquiorra and mock her at the same time, "Don't you look _lovely_?"

He blinks at me with a look that either means he's enjoying this or he has no idea why I'm worked up. I don't know which. "It's just a background, Grimmjow."

"Oh? What'd you put?" I reach forward and try to snatch his picture from him.

Ulquiorra pulls the paper away at the last second, making it look like he hadn't moved. "My art is irrelevant. This is your project."

"What the hell? I don't know what to put!" I'd drawn a bunch of sports stuff, but the damn woman won't accept anything I turn in unless it 'represents the inner me.' Like hell it will.

At least I'm not the only person she's annoyed with her comments about backgrounds and shit.

Ulquiorra sighs and looks down to continue working on his own self-portrait. I can't think of anything to draw so I stare at his head.

His face is hidden behind a curtain of soft—not that I would admit that to anyone—black hair. I can almost smell the mint scent I've gotten used to. I guess I've really spent a lot of time with him.

I'm fucking pathetic.

.

"You're screwed up, Edrad."

I shove Ulquiorra into the closest fitting room, and I think the only reason I'm able to do it is because he isn't expecting me to push him. I also think he let me push him, but I don't want to imagine that. It'd be weird.

"Grimmj—" I slap my hand over his mouth—God, his lips are soft and I can feel his spit—and run in, too, slamming the door so no one will be able to see. I lean against it in relief before realizing that this is the smallest fitting room I've ever been in. Ulquiorra's basically pressed against me.

"Why are we here?" His voice is normally quiet, but it sounds horribly loud today. Ulquiorra stares at me like I've lost my mind, and I probably have.

I cough out an answer to try and make it so he doesn't understand, "I saw some people."

And of course, Ulquiorra Cifer with his _perfect hearing_ gets what I say. "How does this pertain to us?" It's like he shouted it, and I feel myself twitch.

"Because," I growl, though I'm quiet about it.

Trying to move our position because my right arm's falling asleep and my back hurts, I lean forward. Ulquiorra stands still and I find myself moving around him. The space is too small for me to really do anything, so I don't feel any better, and now he's between my legs.

He looks at me pointedly, ignoring the entire, messed up shit that happened.

"I can't let them see _us_," I make an odd hand gesture—I don't even know what it looks like, I just know I whacked Ulquiorra in the chin 'cuz he's shorter than me—"hanging out together!"

He sighs and closes his eyes. "I see. You're embarrassed to be seen with me." There's no emotion in Ulquiorra's voice, it's like he's just stating something.

I don't see the point in trying to lie. I feel a little guilty because I have a feeling he's hurt but has too much pride to say anything.

It would seem like Ulquiorra to try and leave, to purposely annoy me, but he just stands there. I brace myself against the door in case.

He doesn't move.

I try to focus on something else, shifting around again—and ignoring how I just elbowed him in the chest—so I'm leaning back more comfortably. I know Edrad and Nakeem won't leave for a while, and I'm not planning on going until I'm sure they're gone.

I don't try to break this silence. He looks down at me—somehow, despite his height, it's like he's looking _down_ on me—reminding me of the cold looks he used to send me over the past few years. I'd never tried to interpret them before, but I somewhat understand them now.

He keeps staring at me, and it's fucking uncomfortable. I stare at the tattoos lined down his face. It makes sense, since he looks sad all the time. I don't want to think much about it, but I probably caused part of whatever made him get the tattoos.

Ulquiorra notices me staring at his face and something flashes in his eyes. "If you weren't ready to be seen with me," he says, at last breaking the quiet, "we shouldn't have gone to the mall." I know he's right, but I smile a little and take it as him forgiving me.

At this point, as I open my mouth to start the conversation that'll keep us from dying of fitting room boredom, I'm not sure if I'll ever be ready for anything Ulquiorra-related.

.

I don't even know why Ulquiorra and I get along so well. We're completely different from each other, and he used to annoy the shit out of me. He's neat; I'm messy. He's quiet; I'm loud. He follows rules; I break them. He's not rebellious; I am. He thinks a lot of things are pointless; I go out of my way to destroy those things for him—and I have fun doing it sometimes.

I kinda look at our differences as 'opposites attracting.' Just not in the gay sense.

'Cuz if I really think about it, Ulquiorra's being quiet is why I can be so loud. He talks more formally than I do, and it evens out the curse words. He's polite to the people I often feel like killing. His calm affects me sometimes, making me think things through before I yell them out. It saves me a lot of trouble.

I don't think I do much for him, though I know I've helped him open up more. I play around with Ulquiorra so he doesn't take things too seriously or not seriously enough. I hang out with him to show him that not everything is pointless.

Though I wasn't before—and I'm growing to accept that he's gay and figured it out through me—I can be here for him now.

For our friendship, which is remaking itself now, right before me, I like it.

I've always had a soft spot for him, I guess.

.

Nnoitra Jiruga is the biggest ass I've ever met. He smiles his creepy-looking smile before clucking his tongue at me.

"What?" I snap, ready to tear the eye patch—it isn't against the Hueco Mundo dress code because it's considered him 'customizing his uniform,' but that's all shit—off his ugly face. Oddly enough, no one's stopped to listen to us argue.

"I _saw_ you," he grins sadistically. I know he notices me clench my fists, but I hold back from punching him.

"With who, your mom?" I say easily, checking that Ulquiorra isn't close enough to hear. I swear, he notices everything. Lucky for me, he's left to run an errand for one of the many teachers who favor him.

"Come on, Jaegerjacquez," he rolls his eyes, "with your pretty little gay kid." The description matches Ulquiorra completely, I think.

I sigh. "Haven't we already gone through this?" I'm surprised no one's ever bothered to give us detention for all the crap we pull during homeroom alone. Here, in art, where I'm already hated, no one even notices. I almost walk away, but Nnoitra grabs my arm. It pisses me off, and I shove him away. "What the fuck, man?"

He frowns, apparently mad at me, which I don't get at all. "I'll hold it over your head, just for fun."

I do not _understand_ this idiot. There's no point to this.

He must be able to read the look on my face because he adds, "Imagine how embarrassed you'll be if people know you're gay."

I'm defensive, "I'm not." Fuck, does he think I am? Do I send off 'I'm gay' radar? How close do I seem to Ulquiorra?

"Tell that to the guy who sends horny looks to his boyfriend." Nnoitra is smiling now that he has the upper hand, and I want to smash his fucking face in.

I _don't_ look at Ulquiorra like that. I would know if I was lusting over him. "You're only saying that 'cuz you want his ass," I growl, deciding that two can play this game. I picture Ulquiorra for a moment—and because I'm an idiot, I end up with a messed up image of him shirtless—and feel a little guilty.

"I'm not that gay one," he smiles. "I don't like used toys."

I'm about to punch him in the face when I hear the door open and know Ulquiorra's back.

Much as I want to murder Nnoitra, I prefer that he screws with me rather than my neighbor.

Ulquiorra looks from me to Nnoitra back to me again. Now it's fucking _obvious_ we were talking about him because Nnoitra looks at him in kind of a perverted way, grins, and says, "We were just talking 'bout you, gay kid."

I've never wanted to strangle someone so much, but Ulquiorra just shrugs and looks to me. The look on my face surprises him a little—shown in movements I can understand now—but he just walks to his seat. I can tell he knows it's true, but he doesn't press the topic. I'm thankful for that.

I definitely prefer Ulquiorra's company over this ass's, so I follow.

"Gay," Nnoitra whispers after me, smirking. _I'm not._

Gay.

.

"Your bedroom?" He repeats quietly, and my mom clasps her hands together in delight.

I'm about to say a crude comment about wet dreams and bedrooms—though it would be screwed up to say because _I_ was the object of those dreams I'd rather not think about and my mom is _right here_—but she cuts me off.

"Ulquiorra! You haven't been up there in _years_!" She glances at me, as if she knows what I was going to say, before smiling at him.

I have to be thankful my mom's here, though, because I know I'd have taunted his being gay again. Whenever a situation gets awkward, I find a way to blame his gayness because it makes it fucking easier for me to deal.

It's the only way I know to accept that he's gay, and I'm not.

'Cuz I'm not.

No matter what Nnoitra shoves into my head with his dumbass face, I'm not gay.

Ulquiorra looks at me and replies smoothly, "I've been busy, Mrs. Jaegerjacquez. I'm sorry to have distanced myself from your family." I can feel the sucking up coming and try to occupy myself by looking around.

My living room's always been a fucking ugly yellow color, with brown couches and little angel figurines scattered everywhere. Framed on the walls are family pictures—once again, I don't know why my mom makes sure Ulquiorra is them—and passages of the Bible. A psalm I can quote from memory stares me in the face.

It's weird that I was raised in such a religious place, but I'm not even close to being a God-lover. I don't like the idea of some 'greater being' creating me for whatever purpose. I really don't like that I have to prove my 'devotion' by going to Mass on Sundays.

Fuckin' ridiculous.

"Grimmjow, Ulquiorra, I'm so glad you're friends again!" My mom rushes toward Ulquiorra and wraps her arms around him in what has to be the weirdest, most awkward-looking hug I've ever seen. I try not to laugh when Ulquiorra stands stiff and she squeezes him to death.

"Of course." He doesn't smile, never has, and pats her back gently in a way that shows he wants to be released.

I smirk at him, making sure to show that I'm laughing at him. He keeps staring at me through my mom's hug until she lets go.

"I'm sorry," she laughs, "I just missed you two together so _much_!"

Ulquiorra sends another look at me before sighing, "I have, as well."

And I know I'm gaping at him because he doesn't fucking _lie_.

.

For a pep rally, this place is boring as shit. It's loud with the stupid marching band playing, so Yylfordt has to shout whatever the hell he's saying, and I _still_ can't hear him.

"My younger brother's a fag, I'm telling you." I feel my heart speed up for a second, hearing the word, before Yylfordt continues, "He dyed his hair pink yesterday."

Everyone—Shawlong, Di Roy, Edrad, Yylfordt, and Nakeem—laughs and I just sit still, forcing a smile on my face.

"Come on, man, we all know Grimmjow dyed his hair, too."

I glare at Nakeem, "Blue's not a fairy color. The fuck're you saying?"

Di Roy nods enthusiastically, "But you have those markings under your eyes." Fuck, everyone acts like my tattoos are symbols of gayness. I was just in the mood of rebelling and didn't think everything through. They don't look bad, and I don't regret anything.

"And you wear a headpiece even though you have no religion," I snap. The sun burns my face, and I hear the principal spewing shit about how he loves the school and its traditions and whatever.

"Someone's defensive," Shawlong agrees with something Edrad says that I don't hear.

"Whatever, man," I mutter loud enough for them to hear but with enough force to end the conversation. They all follow _me_ around anyway. They know better that to annoy me while I can hear them. They'll probably gossip like girls behind my back later.

For a friendship, we're competitive and take every chance we get to make another person feel weak, girly, or gay. It's not like that's all we talk about, but lately, that's what I've felt.

"My money's on Harribel for Queen," Nakeem laughs. "Check her out."

"Her friends are on the Court with her," Shawlong says, nodding at the other girls, "but they're all in agreement that she will win."

"She'd win anyway," Di Roy smiles. "Look at her t—"

I tune them out, looking around for something to pay attention to. When I see the small boy, book in hand, that could only be a certain person, I know I smile.

.

"You know," I start casually, "even though we're friends, you're a pain in the ass." We're walking to who-knows-where, trying out Ulquiorra's means of transportation. It sucks.

What I've just said surprises me. I never expected to say it or be friends with Ulquiorra again. Somehow, his being gay doesn't bother me anymore. I guess I've missed him.

It's been two weeks. Two weeks since I chose to recreate my friendship with Ulquiorra Cifer. In those two weeks, I've talked to him, learned about him, _flirted_—I'm not gay—with him, and it's like we never stopped talking for those four years.

I'm messing around with his feelings every time I touch him, but right now it doesn't matter. Every time we hang out, I find a way to 'brush against him.' It fucking hurts the guy, I can tell, because he thinks I don't get it.

But I do get it, and that's what's weird about this whole thing.

Ulquiorra looks at me, his odd little half-smile making its way onto his face. "I see."

I feel my heart beat a bit faster, and I grin at him.

.

When I was on Ulquiorra's computer the day he was sick, I looked up people's 'coming out' stories—not because I'm worried _I'm_ gay or anything like that; I just needed to understand.

It was weird, sitting there and reading the things other people felt, but I couldn't really do it anywhere else. My mom would kick me out of the house 'er something if she saw what I was looking up. At the library or a friend's house, they'd be able to see what I was doing.

With Ulquiorra, not only did he fall asleep—though for a second I really thought he _knew_ what went through my mind the day before—he would never ask me why I was searching up this stuff, because he doesn't think it's his business. And it's not. I had a good excuse ready for him, though, just in case.

I read that some people knew they were gay when they were in the locker room. So I can't be gay, because I've never looked at anyone like _that_ in gym class. Some people just had a natural preference for their gender. I admit, yeah, I've always preferred a guy's company—girls cry too much and flirt with me like crazy, it's fuckin' annoying—I don't think it means straight-out _gay_.

A few people said they knew when they liked a particular person. That was Ulquiorra's story.

And my mind just confused him with a girl.

So I'm not. . . gay.

Even so, after reading those stories, it would've made the most sense for me to stay away from him and stop talking to him, but I figure that since I have nothing to worry about, it doesn't matter. Besides, I have this weird feeling in my gut that says I wouldn't be able to ignore him.

It's not like I'm trying to prove that Ulquiorra can't do shit to me 'er anything like that.

I guess I should be worried, 'cuz our friendship ended because of him liking me in _that way_. I could be flattered that his liking me 'changed' him or I could be forgetting that it ever happened, but all I know is that I sometimes don't remember that Ulquiorra's gay.

During those times, it's like I'm hanging out with any of my other friends. 'Cept there's more touching when I'm with Ulquiorra. And I act different around him, like I'm not myself unless he's there.

Other times, though, he does things that smack me in the face and remind me that he likes guys and liked me. I don't know if he still does.

The smartest thing to do—what I should have done in the first place—is ignore him, find a way to stop giving him rides, or act like we had the first few days of school, where we sat in chosen, easy, kinda uncomfortable silence. It would have guaranteed us not becoming friends again and him not liking me again. I don't like the idea of me wanting him, 'cuz I'm not gay. I should've ignored him.

But, no. That would be the easy, cowardly way out. It's also the smartest, which is why I'm an idiot.

I'm stupid because I keep talking to him. I can't ignore him, won't stop giving him rides, and now we actually _talk_ during the drives to school. Worse, I'm hanging out with him, outside of school, and I'm fucking okay with it.

Even though I don't want to say anything—especially not to any of my friends—I have fun with Ulquiorra.

So I guess, if I really looked at it, we're friends now, again. It's weird, because it was barely a month ago that I hated him. It's almost like we've never stopped being friends—if I could conveniently forget that he's openly gay because he liked me.

Now, I can read his movements and shit. I know things about him he's never shared with other people, and I know I'm the only person he's ever bothered to talk to.

Ulquiorra prides himself on not showing what he's feeling. He keeps his face blank and throws around expressionless comments. Since I've spent so much time with him, though, I know how he works.

His face may not tell me anything, but his body—not in the perverted way—is a different story.

Usually, he stops moving. He stiffens in his seat, and his grip gets tighter around whatever he's holding. He'll look at me, slowly, and keep staring until I'm the one to look away, and I usually am. His stare is intense, unblinking, trying to read me.

That's how I know when I've gotten to him.

I'm the only one who knows this, of course. Ulquiorra probably doesn't even know that.

Ulquiorra doesn't really smile, either. Whenever I say something that would make someone else laugh, he does a half smile that I have to really look for to see. I have seen a few of the half smiles, so I know when I make him happy.

He tries not to touch me, though, because he thinks it'll make _me_ uncomfortable. It's funny, because I'm purposely making him uncomfortable and he doesn't know it. It's not really the smartest thing to do, but it's fun. For some reason, I like feeling him.

But that's what all friendships are, especially those where one looks so _touchable _and the other likes to do the touching. And, technically, we have a lot of history together. It makes sense.

It doesn't mean gay.

.

Even though I pretend to hate Ulquiorra, the fact that we were friends and are neighbors—and I guess friends again—makes me have a small soft spot for him. So no matter how annoyed I am with him sometimes, I've always been protective of him.

My being protective only goes so far.

When I want to hug him—and hold him and put my face in his hair—something's up.

* * *

**I stereotyped (badly) the scene with Nnoitra and the entire pep rally scene. XD I'm sorry! I suck.**

**This chapter spans out over the course of two weeks (think of the October 2010 calendar), so you can picture each little cut scene on whatever day you want to see it on. A lot of events that happen in Ulquiorra's next chapter will be what happens in between the story clumps here. I'd have written more now, but it's already well over how much I normally write.**

**I think Grimmjow's become too emotional. I've destroyed him and made him completely OOC! *is shot***

**Ohmygosh, thank you so much for the reviews last chapter! You guys are seriously the best. I love you, no lie! *glomp attacks everyone* I hope this chapter met your expectations. ;)**


	6. In Which Ulquiorra Goes to Homecoming

**VI.**

It's just for entertainment that he tries to punch me—it stems from a discussion regarding my being gay making me too feminine—but I believe Grimmjow underestimates me.

His fist doesn't move with the intent to hurt, but I move out of the way quickly enough. I'm smaller than him, making me more agile, and I'm already standing at his back when he realizes his hand did not meet the intended target.

Grimmjow laughs, "Well, shit, Ulquiorra." I know, despite his front, he is embarrassed to have missed. I, however, am not going to let him hit me as a means of comfort.

He moves surprisingly fast, pouncing and knocking me down to the dying grass of his backyard. A smirk tugs on his lips as his eyes shine. His palms are flat against the ground by my head.

I'm pinned underneath him.

I frown. My head stings only slightly—his movements were quite a shock, though I am not hurt—but I don't like being below him.

I move from my rather uncomfortable position faster than he moved, and I push Grimmjow, who is unusually compliant, so he is in the same situation as I was.

Now I'm on top of him.

Forcing a smirk down, I press my palm to his chest. He sees this as a game, so I say, "I win."

He doesn't like to lose, but he makes no attempt to rematch. Grumbling a little, he stares up at the sky. There is a small breeze and the uncut grass tangles in his hair. We are alone in his backyard, breathing in the silence as autumn leaves move around us.

.

"When you were in seventh grade, you used to bring her over often," I say slowly, almost expecting Grimmjow to laugh. "It was so soon after we stopped talking that I believed you were purposely trying to prove something."

I am partially correct, for Grimmjow smirks rather than laughs. "I guess. Yeah." We look at each other, I from the seat by his desk and he from the bed.

His room is messy, with clothes scattered everywhere and with posters and other papers littering the walls. The room feels cramped when we talk, for usually our conversations carry a significant meaning. That merged with the awkward air, merged with the furniture piled with his things leaves a sense of a small room.

It's an unspoken rule we have, that neither of us brings up the topic of the day I almost kissed him. I don't sit on his bed because it is a reminder, a symbol of those that cannot be forgotten. I know he would hate if I were to sit next to him on his bed because any of my movements will be reminiscent of what he tries not to remember.

Grimmjow's gotten more comfortable with the subject of my homosexuality—to the point that he often makes crude sexual comments about it to detract attention from himself—but he still doesn't like that I am. Perhaps he also dislikes that he is the reason I'd first known.

"Since we're talking about my girlfriends, why don't you tell me 'bout your little romances?" He stares at me, and I blink. I'm surprised, but I hide it well.

"You haven't said much about your relationships," I say carefully, "why should I specify information about mine?"

"Do I have to do _everything_?" He rolls his eyes, laying back to make himself more comfortable. The look on his face says that he will tell me so long as I relay information to him about my own relationships when he is finished. "I'm not gonna give names 'er anything, but this girl, everyone wanted her. She was hot." I eye him doubtfully, as he seems like one to exaggerate his accomplishments. He seems honest, though. "She was my first kiss, if you want to get technical. We didn't know what we were doing."

We both remain silent.

I don't want him to know this, but at the same time, I want him to continue talking. "I haven't kissed anyone," I admit. If it will make him feel less self-conscious, I'll allow him to joke at my expense this time only.

It seems like he is about to use this knowledge for comedic material, but at the last second he stops himself. It's almost as if he understands what I attempted to do to comfort him. I am not familiar with methods of pampering others, but I often find that the small things I do almost subconsciously seem to have the most effect on him.

Grimmjow smiles, "S'not like my first kiss was all fluffy, like the movies. I didn't feel any of those crazy-ass fireworks. We broke up after three months. Wasn't anything big." I feel odd, now that he has entrusted me with such information, so I remain silent. "C'mon, Ulquiorra," he prods. "Tell me 'bout your first boyfriend."

My face is warm. "It was when I was in seventh grade, when you were a freshman," I say slowly. I find the words are not coming to me, as they usually do, and I focus on his face. "He asked me out."

"Bet you didn't get it at first," he laughs. I shoot a cold look to silence him, but he is correct that I had not originally understood the boy's intentions. I will not admit it to Grimmjow, though. "Continue." He waves his hands at me, pressing me forward.

I try to describe him. "He was. . . loud. He wanted to be spontaneous with me at his side, though I never could be so rash." Grimmjow seems to understand this, for he nods and smiles. I try not to look away from him, "As I have said, we never kissed, and after a month he decided I wasn't trying hard enough and moved on."

There is an uncharacteristic silence from Grimmjow, and I cannot interpret it. "You were okay?"

"I never kissed him when he wanted to; I never joined him in his ridiculous escapades around Las Noches. He was not wrong in saying I never did much for him." In truth, I hadn't quite liked spending time with him. I had deemed him trash long before he asked me out, but I had wrongfully assumed that one had to agree to all requests to socialize.

"Why'd you go out with him then?"

"I thought I was supposed to," I say simply, opting not to go into details. Other than for group assignments, he was the first person I talked to in a long time.

"_Fuck_. You don't just go out with the first person who asks you." I do not appreciate Grimmjow implying that I am stupid, but I let it pass.

"I understand that now." We stare at each other, and for a moment I am lost in the expression on his face. He is unreadable, unpredictable.

There is a bright flash of light.

It is the sign of a camera, and we both turn to face the door.

"What're you two boys talking about?"

Grimmjow's mother smiles and steps into the room, and for a moment I wonder if she heard our conversation. I quickly deduce that if she had been eavesdropping, she would not have been comfortable with the topic and would have expelled me from the house. Because she had not, Mrs. Jaegerjacquez had heard nothing.

"What's the picture for?" Grimmjow asks suspiciously. I don't doubt that he does not want her to put it in the living room. It embarrasses me to no end whenever I go in there and see my pictures. I am not a part of this family, regardless of the amount of time I spend here.

"I haven't decided yet," she grins and waves. Grimmjow grumbles and she catches the hint. "I guess I'll leave you two to your gossiping. Have fun!" She winks at me and I try to smile as she walks away.

Her unexpected presence could segue into the story of Grimmjow's next girlfriend, but he starts off with, "Why the hell does my mom love you so much?"

"That is beyond my comprehension," I admit, thinking to the pictures his mother takes on a regular basis.

He tosses a pillow at my head and I catch it swiftly, throwing him a pointed look as he mumbles something along the lines of, "Fucking adore you now."

I throw the cushion back at Grimmjow to keep myself from overanalyzing his statement.

.

"The Spirit Week themes suck," Grimmjow comments, stretching his arms upward. "They were better for my freshman year."

I shrug, prying my eyes away from his rather toned stomach, which had become slightly visible as his shirt rose when he stretched. "You said you don't intend to go to Homecoming, so you needn't participate."

"Still," he grins, "I like to see everyone dressed in shitty costumes. Last year, this senior, Starrk, dressed up like some cowboy with fake guns and everything."

"That's idiotic," I can't help but say. "Hueco Mundo security would have gotten him."

Grimmjow laughs, "They did! That's why it's so funny. His sister, Lilinette, freaked out about it. Apparently she liked his clothes." He stops walking and looks at me suggestively. "You could dress up for Spirit Week."

"No."

"Wear a hat or something, then." He reaches forward to ruffle my hair, and I quickly duck out of the way. I'm not a child who enjoys such activities. "That's Thursday's theme."

"Monday is pajama day; do you honestly expect me to participate in that?" I deadpan. He gives me an odd, unreadable look, as if the thought of me in my bedclothes repulses him. I choose not to comment.

"I'll find something for you, Ulquiorra. Just wait," he says at last, shaking his head and moving forward on the sidewalk.

I blink and move ahead, intent on leading the way.

.

"My second girlfriend was just a month of weird dates and crap. I didn't like her all that much, either," Grimmjow says. I watch as locks of blue hair fall into his face. My fingers itch to touch him, but I can conduct myself.

"Did you find any of your girlfriends' companionship enjoyable?" I wonder aloud. From his stories, it seems as though he didn't like spending time with them.

Apparently he takes my words as an insult, for he snaps, "Did you like spending time with your _boy_friends?"

I frown, "The second one more so than the first." I mention nothing of how I find his presence more pleasant, more amusing, than theirs.

"Well, I liked the third one best," he growls, following the plan where we mention no names. He seems lost in thought for a moment, and I stay silent to allow him time to think. "She was the last person I dated, 'n everyone gives me shit about it."

"Why?"

"'Cuz they want me," he grins, confidence making me nod at him.

I know some people tease him about being gay because he spends time with me, but I say nothing regarding the subject. "Why did your relationship end?" I ask instead.

"I wasn't that into it." It's explanation enough, for I have dealt with the same feelings.

I understand him.

.

"Your tie is done incorrectly," I say after studying his appearance. It is Wednesday, and the theme is 'favorite movie character.' I don't know who Grimmjow is portraying, but I do not feel the need to ask.

"I was in a hurry," he explains, sliding into his car. I follow him in and he grins. "'Sides, you're going to have to wear a hat tomorrow, so it doesn't matter now."

We have agreed that were he to dress up as a movie character, I would wear a hat. It seems to be a fair trade, considering all I have to do is wear a head piece and he has to wear a full costume. As I do not own any hats, Grimmjow will supply one tomorrow.

After a moment of watching him struggle with his tie—and deciding that it will be a long, fruitless struggle that will make me late for school—I lean over and take the two ends of the fabric in my hands.

Grimmjow stiffens and slows his breathing.

My fingers move with precision and accuracy, and I try to ignore his discomfort. I focus on how I am the one to initiate the contact this time, for usually it is Grimmjow who accidentally brushes against me or purposely touches me to gauge my reaction.

I know my breath is touching his face when I see his hair move slightly. He smells quite good, and I force myself to keep my eyes open and keep moving.

I pull myself away from him as soon as the job is complete.

It took less than a minute.

"That is how you tie a tie," I announce, seating myself properly in the car seat and buckling my seatbelt. Grimmjow stares at me, dumbstruck for the moment where he touches his tie and exhales.

I wonder if I've gone too far, but I decide against it when I remember all the times where he has invaded my space for no apparent reason.

"You're something, Ulquiorra," he grins. I figure he is going to pretend this escapade never took place, but he proves me wrong by continuing a discussion on the topic, "How'd you know how to do this?"

I just know, so I ask, "Didn't you wear something formal for Homecoming your freshman year?"

"I didn't need a tie," he shakes his head, starting the car. "I hate suits. I look like shit in them."

Words almost bubble from my lips to protest, for he is wearing a less-formal suit now and looks fine, really good actually, but I hold myself back. Not only will it cause pointless unease, but it will cause him to feel arrogant.

Unfortunately, the look on my face seems to give Grimmjow enough of an idea of what I do think, and he smirks. "I'll find a good hat for you tomorrow."

I sigh, slightly relieved he didn't do anything rash and tease me about it. "Fine."

.

"This place is stupid," Grimmjow says loudly, attracting the looks of the few others in the building with us. People stare at him naturally—he has a certain air about him that, added to his looks, causes people to gravitate to his leadership—but today it is not his looks that garner attention.

"It's a library," I say, stating the obvious as I walk toward the nonfiction section.

He stands behind for a moment before running after me. I begin to question my logic in taking him here.

"You could be quiet," I point out, stretching to reach a book that, conveniently, is located on the top shelf. I attempt to forget about the look on his face as I move.

He laughs, "Shorty." He makes no attempt to lower his voice. "If you need help, you can ask."

I do not require his assistance, and the book is within my grasp in seconds. "I won't require your company next time."

"It's my turn to choose where we go, 'n I can drive us there," he shrugs, leaning against a bookshelf. I can feel his eyes on my back, but I choose to ignore it.

Skimming my eyes over the summary of the paperback in my hand, I comment, "You act as though walking ruins your life."

"I only have to when I hang out with _you_," he counters. We have been spending a lot of time together as of late. Whenever he decides where to go, he drives us to that location, and whenever I choose our setting, we walk.

"Drive next time, then." It's all pointless to me. I slip the book back into the shelf and pull out a hardcover by the same writer.

His breath is hot on my neck, and his face is suddenly too close to mine.

"We're not leaving," I insist, pushing emotions—and a blush because he does these peculiar movements much too often—aside and staring him down. If he wants to play this game, I won't give him the satisfaction of winning.

"Ulquiorra," he whispers, and I look down at him. "Hurry up." He smirks, and for a moment I wonder if he'll act strangely again and try to touch me. I shiver.

"Ten more minutes." It's more than enough time.

.

I suppose I don't mind that he chose a headpiece for me, though admittedly it is an odd Halloween costume mask. "Why this one?" It's made of white plastic and looks like a helmet with a curved horn. Once again, I can't determine where the attire originated.

"'Cuz you have black hair," Grimmjow laughs, backing the car out of the driveway. It is a mediocre explanation. "You have to wear it."

"I know." I do not go back on my word.

"I wore shit yesterday," he nods. Many had swooned over him, and yet again, I heard the chatter of my classmates as they planned to ask him to Homecoming. They spoke of his looks quite often.

Keeping my eyes on his face, I slip the hat, if it could be considered one, onto the left side of my head. It feels odd, heavy.

Grimmjow chuckles and tousles my hair as he stops the car for a traffic light. I wonder why he finds amusement in toying with me.

Sarcasm and something unintelligible laces his voice when he says, "Cute."

I look away.

.

"You want to what?" I'm not sure I heard him correctly the first time, but because of these two weeks I've spent with Grimmjow, I'm willing to believe anything is possible.

"Crash Homecoming." Grimmjow shrugs as though what he has just suggested is simple. He must have seen some form of expression on my face, for he rolls his eyes and starts to laugh. "Oh, come on. You know you want to."

I suppose, yes, I do want to. Some part of me, however minute it is, has always wanted this picture-perfect fantasy to play out. I wonder what it means to be in love, to have a high school romance, to kiss. I wonder what it means to have something burning in me, something other than just emptiness.

I'm learning, albeit slowly.

My words are half-hearted, but to my ears and to Grimmjow's, it isn't obvious. "If we're caught, w—"

He beams at me, as it's evident now that I've been won over. "We won't get caught." At my questioning look, he continues, "I'll drive up when some people are leaving, and we can just go back in and claim we forgot something."

I'm silent for a moment, thinking it over. I'm surprised with the logic in his plan, and I have to wonder if he really conceived it just now. I give him a curt nod, "You've really thought this through."

"Hell yeah." He halts the car for a traffic light.

Shooting him a momentary look, I take in the loose-fitting gray shirt he's wearing. "We're not appropriately dressed," I point out.

"Doesn't matter. No one'll care." He smiles at me again before starting the car, and I slowly relax.

What I'm feeling now, the comfort, the anxiety, and the exhilaration, it's what I've always imagined high school would feel like. Television programs and fiction novels never truly portray high school the way it is. I'd expected what was written and come up empty-handed.

I glance at Grimmjow surreptitiously, only looking away when he meets my gaze with a confidence I don't outwardly seem to have. As we near the Hueco Mundo school property, I feel a flicker of excitement, something I haven't felt in a long time, forcing its way into me.

We leave the car quietly, wordlessly, and go against the flow of the crowd of people until we near the entrance. No teachers or staff members stand by the doors to block a person from sneaking in, something that is both unsafe and uncalled for.

I'm surprised and a little pleased—there's no need to deny my feelings, for that would be acting like trash—when Grimmjow takes my wrist and drags me inside.

His grip is a little rough, definitely unused to holding onto me, but I let him lead.

We're inside in seconds.

There, the walls are decorated to look like a medieval stone castle. Grimmjow smirks at me arrogantly, "Told ya we'd get in." I'm honestly surprised with the low security of the school, for it had been much too easy for breaking and entering.

We stand there, just looking at each other, for a minute or two. I can hear a fast dance song turn into a slow ballad. This is what Homecoming is like; this is what it means to be somewhere with the object of one's affections.

I swallow and nod at Grimmjow, focusing instead on how neither of us is appropriately dressed.

A somewhat smile appears on my face, which must have shocked Grimmjow as much as it shocked me. A wave of emotion runs through me, jolting me, scaring me—if only a little. I'm not so surprised when I realize why I feel it, as I've felt something similar before.

He scratches the back of his neck, and pats my shoulder. Heat rushes through my face.

I definitely _like_ him again, and it's more than just a child's meager definition of affection now.

.

"They've already cleared the food," Grimmjow complains, staring at the chaperones as they gather plates together.

"We've already had something," I remind him. I can feel people staring, undoubtedly surprised to see us together, and together at a dance, no less. Grimmjow has overcome his fear of being seen with me, oddly enough.

"Yeah, but what else're we supposed to do?" he grumbles, glaring at some people who are looking at him. He understands _why_ those people are gaping, I'm sure. It does not take a genius to know what they think when they see him with me.

"Is admiring the scenery not enough?" I ask, honesty seeping into my tone before I can hide it. I don't know what he expected to do, as we've arrived at a Homecoming dance ten minutes before its end.

"No it's not fucking _enough_," Grimmjow laughs incredulously, shaking his head. "It'll get boring after a while."

"What do you suggest, then?"

"I—" I look upward to meet his eyes, and the emotions swarming in them keep me rooted to the spot. I can't read any of them, but I know I have never seen these emotions in him before. He stares at me silently before clearing his throat, "Let's go to the gym."

I nod, pulling myself out of this trance in time to lead the way. Grimmjow's eyes are burning into my back, and it is a rather uncomfortable gesture.

The gymnasium has been decorated with dollar-store streamers, and the one of the normally white walls is covered by a large paper picture of a fairy tale character I can't identify. The lights are dimmed, and the room is cold because of the open doors.

The effect the decorators were trying to achieve is lost on me.

Grimmjow glances around before sighing, "It looks. . ." He searches for a word and comes up with nothing.

"Mediocre," I supply when he remains silent.

"Like shit," he laughs, pointing at the drawing of the woman on the wall. "My freshman year wasn't this bad." I don't know what his theme was, and he quickly adds, "Arabian Nights. My date tried to wear a sari."

Recalling our previous conversations about his third girlfriend, I nod in understanding. We stand in silence for a while, listening to the music shift into another fast song. A small number of couples remain dancing, and the occasional glance is shuffled in our direction because of Grimmjow's popularity.

With his tendency to bring up awkward conversation topics, he laughs, "You're technically the second person I've gone to Homecoming with."

We stare at each other in silence.

I want to say that the lights are why my face heats up, but I know it is not the case and there is no reason to lie. I can't come up with something to say back, so I keep my face neutral to study his.

Grimmjow is still smiling, and I notice how bright his eyes seem, the blue shocking me and once again leaving me standing in place. My gaze shifts lower, and I stare at his lips. He has a large mouth, but his lips seem quite soft, and—

Shit. I'm doing it again.

I've learned from my past mistakes, however. Meaningless emotions will no longer control my decisions. Impulse will not lead me to try and kiss him, when I know it will destroy what has been precariously built. I cannot act selfishly, as I had as a child, and put myself first.

I look back to Grimmjow's eyes as the song becomes a romantic ballad for the couples who have stayed for a final song, a last dance.

Sentimental as it is, I wonder what it would mean if Grimmjow and I were to partake in such a dance. It will not happen, I know, but I still wonder.

.

I feel myself settle into his arms with a sigh, familiarity mixing with the foreignness of the situation. I lean forward, almost resting in this embrace I never would have expected to take place again.

Even now, it's much different to hold him. Our height difference is more pronounced, and through the fabric of his shirt, I can feel muscle. As children, an open display of affection is natural. As teens, such an act is rare and should be cherished.

It feels much better to hug him when he's seventeen and I'm aware of why there's a rush of heat in my body.

Grimmjow can't, doesn't, harbor the type of affection I desire, I know that much, but at the moment, I'm satisfied with our friendship where it is. I won't make a wrong judgment again, as I had that night before he started middle school, if it means I feel this type of contentment.

It is often forgotten in romances, but when a boy likes a girl, it is a challenge of whether or not she likes him back. When a boy likes another boy, however, he faces two challenges: the object of affection has to like boys, and afterward he has to like that particular boy.

If, for some reason, Grimmjow should ever match one of the requirements, he will never meet the other.

My head rests at the base of his neck, and I can smell some of his cologne, his sweat, and just _him_. I'm limp in his arms—Grimmjow could disregard me like trash and I wouldn't be able to stop him—and comfortable and at ease.

The hug is really only about a second, but Grimmjow's touch lingers on me much longer than it should.

When he pulls away, the warmth begins to fade. "Don't get mushy on me now," he laughs.

I nod and slide into the car.

* * *

**I feel like my writing's getting longer but not better. I'm not happy with this chapter because OOC-ness just keeps rising and rising. XD I did like writing the Homecoming and subtle flirting stuff, though.**

**Thank you so much for your reviews last chapter! This story has over 50 reviews now! I LOVE YOU ALL! You're amazing! *foams at the mouth and dies***


	7. In Which Grimmjow Partly Accepts

**Warnings: Overall suckiness, extreme abuse of the word 'gay,' a few paragraphs of content that might not be properly rated, and **_**extremely**_** OOC characters.**

* * *

**VII.**

"You're technically the second person I've gone to Homecoming with." The words shoot out of my mouth before I realize how bad they sound—I'm acting gay and it fucking sucks—so I feel like murdering something.

Because—call me girly and shit—being here, at Homecoming with him, has made me realize that I might possibly want to _dance_. With Ulquiorra Cifer of all people. And the idea of us dancing together is confusing, 'cuz that definitely is a sign of being gay. I _cannot_ be _gay_.

I'd figured that if I spent more time with him, I'd realize I was just overreacting. I hadn't planned for any of _this_ to happen. We weren't supposed to become friends again, and I sure as _hell_ wasn't supposed to like him.

But stupid little Ulquiorra had to go and ruin everything, didn't he? We just _had_ to become friends again. I just _had_ to enjoy spending time with him. I just _had_ to feel a tiny bit of excitement when I thought of crashing Homecoming. These two weeks were supposed to _solve_ everything. I'm not supposed to be _attracted_ to him.

Well. Fuck him for looking like a girl.

"I didn't know he was gay, too," someone whispers. My heart stops, and I don't have it in me to defend myself.

This, _this_, isn't supposed to be happening. Considering how much touchy-feely shit I make him go through, though, I think it was obvious from the start how much I liked this—him. So now I'm dense, stupid, and maybe gay. Maybe.

He blushes, 'cuz I don't have a better word, at my statement. His skin is pale enough to make him look red. I smile a little, trying to push any perverted thoughts from my mind. I think about girls from my classes—a girl that is nothing like Ulquiorra, preferably—and try to think of her naked.

It doesn't work.

And damn it, my mind is screaming "Gaygaygay!" and all I want is to hide and forget about this. Accepting Ulquiorra as someone like a _lover_ is basically murder. In school, I'll have to watch out, and _fuck_, I don't even want to think of what my mom would say.

So, no, it's not possible.

"That was interesting," Ulquiorra says as the last few couples are leaving. They're sending ugly looks in my direction because I'm hanging out with him, and something painful sits in my stomach. They would be treating me like that, if they thought I was. . .

Gay. Gay. Gay.

I try to smile, "It sucked, like it did when I was a freshman." I focus my eyes on someone else's date, 'cuz her dress doesn't cover much and maybe I can fix this. The song changes into a slow, romantic ballad, and if I want to dance—and basically announce gayness to everyone—then this is it.

But I'm not _that_ stupid and I don't ask him anything.

"I see." But that's something he says whenever he doesn't understand what I mean. I don't feel like clearing anything up.

"We should go," I announce, pushing these thoughts away. "My mom'll kill me if she sees me this late." And she will. As much as she likes me spending time with Ulquiorra, I can only stay out for so long before she gets annoyed. I need to get away from this anyway; I need to clear my head from all this shit.

"Of course." Ulquiorra starts walking, and I follow him quietly. I know my gaze is on his back and I know he can feel it because he's walking stiffer than usual.

He stops walking suddenly, and I slam into him 'cuz I wasn't paying attention. "Hey," I mutter. My mind is racing with shit-for-thoughts. He's _right there_. Right there, in front of me, like he's been the entire time. And then, to add more confusion to the mix, I do something so fucking messed up and not like me, I don't know why I did it.

I hug him.

I'm acting so _gay_. The thought isn't repulsive for the same reasons as before, so I've basically thrown myself in a hole to die.

He was stiff at first, not breathing, but I feel him relaxing and leaning into me. Because Ulquiorra doesn't deny things the way I do. "Grimmjow," he mutters, and he says something else I don't hear, and I don't ask him to repeat. Maybe I don't want to know.

I like him in my arms, I like the way he's small and fits almost perfectly against me. I don't like—and will never on my life admit to—how I have to _force_ my hands to stay around his waist and not move downward.

Gaygay_gay_.

I don't like how this means I like him, Ulquiorra Cifer, a guy, a _fucking guy_.

"Don't get mushy on me now."

Gay.

I. Am. Screwed.

.

Was all the staring I did before supposed to lead to this? Had I been checking him out the whole time? Is this why none of my relationships worked out before? Is a relationship with Ulquiorra supposed to mean something? What'll happen if I am gay? What'll my mom do? What'll my friends do?

But maybe I'm over-thinking these things. Maybe it's just an Ulquiorra craze because he already looks so much like a girl.

Why can't I be normal?

Ulquiorra's not saying anything, and I'm so fucking _happy_ that he's not. For once, I need his silence. I need to think.

.

"How was your night, Grimmy?" My mom is sitting on the couch in her pajamas, so I figure she woke up 'cuz I said I'd be home at this time.

"Fine." A picture of a saint makes me freeze in my place. I don't think there is a God, but that knowledge doesn't make me feel better. It's like this saint _knows_ the shit I'm feeling, the stupid possibility-turned-reality of it all.

Disgusting. Repulsive. Piece of shit. That's what I am.

"What did you do?" The saint's eyes match up with my mom's—blue and staring at me and making me feel so goddamn guilty—and I try to smile, but my stomach feels too much like _shit_ for me to do a good job.

"Just ate out and went to the store, nothing huge." Nothing huge my ass. Gay gay gay gay gay. It's a fucking _chant in my head_. I think of Ulquiorra and push the thought aside immediately. Something else. Think of something else.

She grins broadly, "I love that you two are friends again."

"Yeah." I sound dead. "Friends." Friends that could possibly become fuck buddies because that's what I'll end up doing, isn't it?

"Grimmjow, honey?" My mom stands up, her voice sounding worried. "What's wrong?" She's at my side immediately, her hand against my forehead. I don't have a fever, that's for sure.

I don't really know how to ask her this. "What should I do if I know someone who's. . ." I choke out the last part, "gay?" Gay. Me.

Shit.

She brushes some hair from my face, trying and failing to be comforting. Of course she's failing at it. I don't even know why I bothered to ask her anything. The answer won't be good. "I would never let you associate with _those_ people."

"Yeah," I mutter, dread filling me. I try to look for something to stare at that doesn't have religion plastered on it. The only things I can find are fake plants and family pictures. Pictures, of course, that feature Ulquiorra somewhere.

Statues and pictures and words are taunting me. Gay gay gay.

"Well, if your friend is gay, try to fix him." The look on her face tells me she thinks she knows why I feel so bad. Whatever she's thinking sure as hell isn't _close_ to the truth. "If he won't change, you can't spend time with him. What if he tries to convert you?"

It would be awesome if I could find a way to blame Ulquiorra for this. But I can't, no matter how much I want to.

I give her another fake smile, wiping away the shit I'm feeling so she doesn't freak out. "I just won't talk to him, then." I feel like a baby, a fucking kid.

"That's a good boy. Those people stray from God, you stray from them." She ruffles my hair and sighs. We stare at each other quietly for a minute. "It's late. Forget about that kid."

Yeah, that's fucking impossible when the gay kid is the Ulquiorra she loves so much.

And maybe, possibly _me_. What will happen then?

.

"I saw you at Homecoming," Nnoitra smirks as he walks toward his seat near mine. "With your boyfriend."

"Fuck off," I growl before adding, "and we're not fucking dating. I'm not gay, dumbass." It must've looked bad, and I'm already starting to question everything I've considered normal.

"Touchy," he hisses, flicking his tongue in my direction. Bastard. He relaxes in his seat, and I want to relax, too.

The amount of time I've spent with Ulquiorra has to mean something, though I don't like where it's going and why it means something along the lines of _gay_.

.

We didn't talk on the car ride to school, but it took a lot of effort to keep my eyes focused on the road and not on him. Awkward or not, he still has the habit of staring at me and not even trying to hide it.

Even now, during art, he's sneaking these odd looks at me. It's ridiculously obvious—and a little uncomfortable 'cuz it makes me think he knows what I'm thinking, which isn't good because what I'm thinking of is shit—and I suddenly remember something.

"I'm staying after school today."

Ulquiorra stops painting for a moment to look up at me. "You mentioned this before." He dips his brush in the color red and swirls it across the paper.

"Yeah, well, are you waiting for me or not?" I growl, slightly annoyed. Everything Ulquiorra's been doing lately has pissed me off. Why is he not normal? Why can't he be a girl? Why am I questioning every goddamn thing he does?

I throw a colored pencil down on the table. "I'm done with this shit." At Ulquiorra's look I quickly add, "My art project, I mean."

The hippie woman, whose name I think I honestly don't know, comes over and smiles. "Lovely," she breathes excitedly. "You've finally finished your background."

"Yeah." I'm pissed off. All I did was scribble in the background with all of the colored pencils, and somehow she thinks it's _art_?

"It's _lovely!_" she says again, picking up the drawing. "Deserving of an _A_. 98, Grimmjow." I nod slowly and she adds, "Please start on the next project. Everyone else is ahead of you."

.

Basketball practice feels like the only place where I can relax. Nothing is in my way, and I'm just myself. Alone, with none of these confusing, pestering questions bothering me.

The ball soars from my hands and bounces repeatedly against the rim of the basket before swishing in. I grit my teeth and run to catch it before dribbling it back to shoot again, and again, and again. This is mine.

I push all my thoughts aside and toss the ball to someone else. My vision is slightly blurred, so I'm not sure who it is. Funny, because that's how everything feels to me right now. He dribbles the ball away and passes it to someone else.

"Hey, man, you alright?" Nakeem breathes hard and tries to grin at me. I'm not even close to being out of breath, tired.

"What?" I snap, feeling some tension leave me when I'm louder. We both start running to the other side of the court.

It feels better, a relief.

.

"Is something bothering you, Grimmjow?" Ulquiorra's voice seems haunting now, though I can see genuine concern in his eyes. I hate it. I brush some of my hair back and leer at him, a fake smile forcing its way out of me.

"Just tired from practice," I lie easily.

"I see." Silently, I can fill in the sappy words: You can talk to me if you need to. Of course I know that. Of course I know that he'd want to talk to me, and that I need to talk to him most.

But I don't want to do that.

"Alright then," I brighten my smile and start the car, focusing on something else.

.

His scream is blaringly loud.

The first thing on my mind is confusion. Then, _Hell no. _After that, it's that I need a fucking shower.

Because, _fuck_, I just had a wet dream.

I had a wet dream about Ulquiorra. _Ulquiorra_, of all people. And I know what it means this time.

Gaygaygay.

My mind won't stop playing these scenes, the ones making me uncomfortable—I've _never_ had this type of dream before—and yet made me feel pleasure, 'cuz otherwise I wouldn't have woken up with a hard on brought by Ulquiorra. The cold water is supposed to help me, but instead I'm thinking of Ulquiorra's hands, which are this cold normally.

The dream means two things to me: I think Ulquiorra's hot and I confuse him with a girl way too often. Because even though I can't like him like that, I do like him like that.

But, I can't. I really shouldn't even be having this problem.

And I can't get the images out of my head. They're on a constantly repeating cycle, and I change the water temperature to hot. I want it to scald my skin and burn everything away.

There were the parts of the dream where Ulquiorra kissed me agonizingly slow, pushing me against the grass and smirking while he kissed my neck. . . . _Gay_, I tell myself, stroking and squeezing and _fuck_ _this_.

Ulquiorra took off his uniform and threw his clothes across the field, his body hot as his fingers worked on my shirt and pants, leaving boxers that were tossed aside when we fucked under the tree. . . _Gay!_ I push the thought aside, letting my hands do all the work.

Where a smile was hinting on Ulquiorra's face when I was the dominant one—because I'd been the bottom for a large portion of this dream, unfortunately—and I made him come so many times, so many times. . . _Gay._ I come.

I don't feel even a little better when I finish my shower.

"Why'd I dream about _that_?" But I know why, and I can't even deny it now.

Just might be gay. . .

More than anything, I don't want to see Ulquiorra today. I don't want to see his smug little face because he probably _knows_ what he does in my dreams.

I dress slowly, as I'm getting into the uniform that, in my dream, Ulquiorra threw aside before he crawled between my legs and sucked—My face burns, and I try not to think about it. (Because it's a sign of gaygaygay.)

Something nags at me through breakfast, because this dream tells me that I'm suspiciously gay for a certain Ulquiorra Cifer.

I am _fucking_ gay.

Attracted to guys, interested in fucking up the ass, all that shit. And it means the rest of the day is going to be awkward when I see him. I have to drive him to school today.

I'm lost in thoughts and I'm fucking nauseous. Gay. Wet dream. Gay. Ulquiorra. Gay.

The realization doesn't even come as a shock to me. It's all been a point of denying until now, I guess.

What a rip-off.

The eyes of the pictures on the walls, the statues, the Ten Commandments, everything taunts me as I move forward. This so-called God is screwing with my head.

I walk slowly, hoping for who knows what, but at my car, I make the mistake of looking directly at Ulquiorra's face. My body feels hot and I stare at the ground, because I know that if I look anywhere else I'm going to think of having sex there.

Ulquiorra stands there awkwardly, oblivious as hell to what I'm thinking of. His uniform normally covers all of his skin, but today it doesn't cover enough. Why is he doing this to me? "Are you—"

I push him so hard he trips backward. My hands are burning because of the contact with his skin.

_You are so gay._

.

Everything feels new and awkward. Nnoitra is still an ass, but now I don't feel up to arguing with him. Classes where girls are flirting with me seem like even more of a waste of time. Art is a test of ignoring Ulquiorra properly. Gym. . .

The locker room, fucking hell, the locker room is the worst invention in the world.

I've never dealt with this before. The curiosity, the wondering of what exactly is underneath it all.

To think, I used to make fun of people for this. Will people make fun of me?

.

She looks at me and smiles. Ulquiorra watches this from hearing distance with a blank look on his face.

Before I can change my mind, I run my fingers through my hair—messing it up even more as I realize that she and I both have unusual hair colors—and force myself to smile back. "Is that a yes?"

Neliel laughs and throws herself at me in the most painful hug I've ever been forced through. But I'm forcing myself through this. It was my choice. I hear her squealing when her face is pressed against my chest. "Yes! Of course it's a yes!" Ulquiorra blinks at me from beside the car, as though he's fucking innocent. "It's a date!"

Gay? No one has to know.

.

"You mad?" I can't look at him. I've lost it. I've fucking lost it. I'm guilty and angry and sorry and fucking _regretting_ everything.

"About?" Ulquiorra has no idea what's going through my mind. He seems too calm, staring out the window. He brushes some of his hair out of his face. Is he hurt or unaffected or what? I don't know.

"You know what." I tell myself to forget the dream of him and think of Nel.

"I play no role in your decisions, Grimmjow. Do you want me to be angry?" Ulquiorra stares at me oddly, expressionless, as usual. I can never tell what goes through his mind, but I think I like it better when he was looking out the window.

"Just asking," I laugh. I try to focus on driving. My mouth is dry, and I suddenly want to ask a question that I probably know the answer to. "What was on your mind the day before we stopped being friends?" I spit it out kind of harshly, but Ulquiorra never seems to mind. I've tried not to remember that day for so long, it's weird being the one to bring it up.

He tries to find something in my face, and I turn the car around the corner, focusing mainly on _not crashing_. "What?"

"You know." I don't want to say anything. "What were you thinking the day before I went to middle school, when you ended our friendship?"

"I don't—"

"You tried to fucking kiss me, Ulquiorra!" I shout, holding tightly onto the steering wheel. He sits in silence for a few minutes. "You decided we didn't need to be friends anymore, and then now. . ."

Our past friendship lead to this one. It doesn't have the same feel as the first one did. There's more tension. This friendship, it was partly my decision but partly his, too.

He closes his eyes and turns away. "Is this a joke between you and your friends?" I wish this was just a joke. A big fucking joke where I'm so completely straight. Ulquiorra wouldn't be in my life. But I don't fully want that. "Is this to see if I still like you?" Ulquiorra's voice is soft, as always. He sounds expressionless, but I pretend to hear nervousness so I don't feel as bad. Of course, I'm asking him this days after we hugged at Homecoming.

A hug that made all this shit start and end and everything.

"Just tell me." I focus on the dashboard, feeling the burning on my face, the fast beat of my heart. Ulquiorra looks at me, and I hate that I'm asking. We sit in silence.

"You want to know why I tried to—"

"Yeah." I don't want to hear him say the words.

He's quiet for a while, like he's trying to find the right way to say it. "I wanted to." When he sees that I'm not impressed, he continues, "I was. . . attracted to you for a while. As you obviously rejected my advances, I didn't want to make everything awkward for you." He pauses before adding, "It seemed like the right thing to do, and I'd never imagined we would eventually continue the friendship."

"Oh." The car's at a red light, and all I can think is _Wow_. My eyes search his face, taking in everything in a different light. I've never felt this way before. I want to kiss him.

"Why are you asking?" He doesn't sound suspicious, but he could be, for all I know.

"I was always curious." I turn the corner. "I guess deep down, I never wanted us to not be friends," I add, because I know I hurt him before. I might as well get it out in the open.

"Oh," he mimics my earlier reaction and lets out a small breath when I park the car in front of our houses.

I want to kiss him. His gaze is like spiders, creeping down my body, writhing, twisting, tangling itself into my skin and making me uncomfortable. He glances at me awkwardly before nodding and leaving the car. When he walks away, I hate him.

But then he turns back, and I know it's not true.

* * *

**XD Isn't it about time that this realization came?**

**I'm so sorry for the delay in posting this. I know the quality (and the length) of this chapter don't even begin to make up for the months I've kept you waiting. I'm sorry! *dies* I'm not going to abandon this story. (Expect less that fifteen chapters for this, though. Around ten was the original plan, and it most likely won't change because I have another GrimmUlqui story I want to write. XD)**

**Thank you so much for the reviews for last chapter! I've never gotten so many for one chapter before, and they were so beautiful and inspiring and kept me writing even with crap from real life going on. Thankyouthankyouthankyou! I'll make it up to you somehow! =P**

**Despite the suckiness of this chapter (and, ohmygosh, it really sucks, doesn't it?), I hope you can tolerate it. ;)**


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